


Comes Wisdom in Defeat

by Antarctica_or_bust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: A tiny bit of hope, Alternate Universe - Battle Of Five Armies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, And super creepy, Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Beorn's House, Big Brother Fíli, Bilbo is not tactful, But Probably Not the Way You're Thinking, Canon - Book, Canon - Movie, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Changing Tenses, Character Death Fix, Coda, Dragon Sickness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor, Evil Wins, F/M, Family, Fate & Destiny, Flirting, Fíli and Kíli Brotherly Love, Fíli and Kíli are adorable, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hidden Depths, Imprisonment, Internal Conflict, Kíli as King, Kíli is also a bit PTSD, Kíli might be a little traumatized, Kíli-centric, Laketown, Love Triangles, M/M, Memories, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Mirkwood, Mirkwood is evil, Missing Scene, Pining, Politics, Post-Series, Protective Kíli, Rivendell, Secrets, Self-Doubt, Self-Sacrifice, Serious Injuries, Sieges, Tauriel has backstory, Thorin is an asshole, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Tragedy, Trying to change fate, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love, Violence, Violent Thoughts, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antarctica_or_bust/pseuds/Antarctica_or_bust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kíli is the only Durin to survive the Battle of the Five Armies but when their world falls into the darkness, the Valar grant him one chance to make things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic for far, far too long (and yet somehow it's not even the oldest WIP on my computer). But I couldn't finish it until the 3rd movie came out so at least I have an excuse. That said, I am also very fond of this.

Fíli dies first.  
  
The dwarf is struck down by a blow meant for his uncle, Bolg's blade piercing his chest with a wet thunk when he leaps into the way. He is brave and foolhardy, a true Durin to the last, and Kíli can only watch in horror as the light leaves his brother's eyes.  
  
It wasn't supposed to end like this, not with Thorin on his knees and broken while his heir bleeds out in the dirt. It was supposed to end in glory and a new hope for their future, something that seems more distant with every halting breath. For there can be no kingdom without a king to rule it and yet Kíli does not care about the loss of Erebor.  
  
All the archer cares about is Fíli, his desperate shouts ringing across the battlefield as he struggles to reach his brother’s side. Indeed, the goblins that block his way soon learn the folly of standing against the prince when his kindred are in danger, but Kíli forgets all about his enemy once his goal is in sight. Instead his blade drops from nerveless fingers as he kneels by Fíli's body, ignoring the blood that seeps through his armor as he cradles his brother's head against his chest.  
  
“Please, Fíli. You have to get up,” the younger dwarf pleads, voice cracking painfully at the chill beneath his hands. “You have to because we're Fíli and Kíli and you can't leave me alone. _Please_ , brother; I don't want to be alone.”  
  
Kíli pays no attention to the battle still raging on around them, no longer caring if some stray arrow strikes him down. What does it matter if he does not live to see the morrow when his brother will never watch another new sun rise?  
  
So the prince does not react as Bolg stalks forward, his cruel blade slick with dwarven blood. He does not react when Thorin tries to stop the orc despite the spears that pierce his body, his shield trembling in his hands. The dwarf lord demands that Bolg face him but their enemy just laughs cruelly at this challenge before swatting the King Under the Mountain out of his way with a sickening crunch of steel on bone.  
  
Yet Kíli still does not react, not even when his family's greatest enemy halts before the youngest Durin – the only Durin now. Instead he just bows his head over his brother's body, tears streaking through the dirt upon his cheeks. This battle is lost already; the prince cannot hope to stand against Bolg when better warriors failed and all he wants now is to meet Fíli and Thorin in their maker’s halls.  
  
However, when Bolg's roar of triumph ends in a choked off gurgle, Kíli has to look up, surprise penetrating even the dark pit of his grief.  
  
For the giant orc's attack was stopped by one small hobbit, the company's burglar glaring at Bolg fiercely over the length of his blade. His sword has struck true, piercing Bolg’s stomach where two plates of armor don't quite meet, and the wave of blood pouring from the wound should not give the monster long. Yet Bilbo is not the only one who found his target, Bolg's blade just missing the hobbit's mithril armor, and Kíli cannot hold back a cry as Bilbo slowly crumples to the ground.  
  
“Bilbo, why?” the dwarf chokes out, reaching out to take his dear friend's hand. “Why would you save me after everything?”  
  
But the hobbit just gives Kíli a sweet smile and whispers, “You are worth it,” before his eyes close one last time. It is a sacrifice that the archer does not deserve; one he does not want now that his closest kin are gone. His brother is _gone_ and it's because of the monster who's still smirking down at him.  
  
Kíli has never been one to hate his enemies but suddenly he hates Bolg now, fury burning like molten mithril through his veins. He wants the orc to suffer, wants him to die screaming in helpless agony, and if this must be the end of Durin's line, then they will not fall alone. Because Bolg is still standing despite his enemies’ best efforts and Kíli is no longer content to wait for blood loss to finish him. The prince is going to kill the orc or die trying; he will have his vengeance if not victory. But while the archer is ready to throw himself at Bolg bare-handed, Fíli has one last gift for him.  
  
Because there is metal beneath Kíli's fingers, the dagger that his brother kept above his heart crying out for blood to answer blood. So the prince listens, wrapping his fingers around the dagger’s hilt and surging forward with speed born of hatred, Kíli ducking under the orc's blade to slam Fíli's knife between his killer’s ribs.  
  
“Die, you bastard,” the dwarf growls, twisting the dagger cruelly as his enemy jerks back in shock. He wants Bolg to feel every inch of the steel that’s tearing through his body, the orc's screams like music to his ears.  
  
Yet the vicious pleasure that Kíli feels when his enemy finally topples disappears back into misery almost instantly. For vengeance does not come close to replacing what the archer has lost in this battle and without Bolg there to feed his fury, there is only pain instead.  
  
So the young prince turns away from the orc to take Fíli back in his arms, the broken bodies of his uncle and their burglar burned into his sight. Those he loved most gave their lives to protect the Lonely Mountain and yet Kíli cannot help but wonder if the prize was worth the cost. _All this death and destruction and for what? Our quest accomplished nothing; nothing but to water this desolation with our blood._  
  
For while Thorin spoke of this day as though it would be met with celebration, all Kíli feels is emptiness instead. There is a gaping wound inside his heart that seems to spread with every breath, growing within him until the dwarf cannot hold back his sobs anymore.  
  
\---  
  
Gandalf finds the archer there after the dust has settled, Beorn and the eagles having turned the battle's tide. These reinforcements allowed the exhausted warriors defending Erebor to fight off their attackers and yet the wizard knows that the win today is no triumphant victory.  
  
The death toll was enormous, Gandalf’s heart breaking further with every corpse he sees, and the sight of Thorin’s body nearly brings him to his knees for the King under the Mountain is sprawled upon the battlefield amidst the broken spears that brought him down. There is no grace in death, the dwarf lord's once fine features covered in filth and twisted with gruesome injury. He will never see his homeland restored to glory or pace the fine halls of which he dreamed, and for a moment, Gandalf thinks that Thorin's sister-sons are walking through the Halls of Mandos at his side.  
  
They could not have survived, not when the ground beneath his feet has become a crimson river and Kíli is slumped unmoving over Fíli's body in the heart of it. The blood sinks through the leather of the wizard's boots, every step squelching as he walks over to the princes, and he's not sure if he will ever feel clean again.  
  
However, when Gandalf touches Kíli's shoulder, the archer stirs, looking up at the wizard with blood-shot eyes. In truth, the dwarf hardly seems to register his presence, Kíli's mind still lost in the battle that had claimed his brother’s life.  
  
But at this point, Gandalf is just pleased to see a Durin left alive and now that the fight is over, he can wait until reason returns to the archer’s eyes.  
  
“You are late, wizard,” Kíli croaks eventually, the accusation in his voice making Gandalf wince with guilt. He was supposed to help Thorin reclaim his kingdom, Valar's grace but this quest was his idea, and yet he had allowed his dear friends to die.  
  
So all the wizard can do is whisper, “I am sorry; I could not reach your side in time,” and know that his apology will do nothing to ease the young dwarf’s pain.  
  
Indeed the prince does not respond to Gandalf's words, reaching out to stroke his brother’s cheek as grief overcomes his heart once more. Fíli is cold now, eyes blank and staring where they had once shone with light and laughter, and the wizard truly wishes that he could let Kíli be. But while Gandalf knows that he will never have the heart to return to the site of his greatest failure, today he must salvage what he can.  
  
So he reaches out and shakes the prince again, putting a touch of magic in his voice when the dwarf shrugs off his hand. “Kíli, you must focus. Your people need you and you cannot abandon them to wallow in your grief. You are king now and there is much work to be done.”  
  
“King... I never wanted to be king,” Kíli replies bitterly. Fíli had always been better suited to leadership, his quiet strength commanding the respect of dwarrows twice his age while Kíli could barely get his own kin to take his ideas seriously. So how is the archer supposed to fill his brother's shoes? How is he supposed to replace his uncle now?  
  
Yet as the dwarf looks around the battlefield, the earth soaked with death and strewn with the corpses of his people, Kíli knows he has to try. He cannot abandon the dream for which his family died and thus Erebor must be his burden now. The Lonely Mountain is Kíli's to defend because there's simply no one else to do it and so the new-crowned king reaches up to dry his eyes. There will be time for tears once Durin's Folk are home again and he will not waste the life that was bought with Bilbo's sacrifice.  
  
But even with this determination holding back the sorrow, the archer cannot bear to let his brother go just yet. Instead he lifts Fíli's body in his arms and struggles to his feet despite the pain of his own injuries, growling Gandalf and his companions back when the wizard tries to help.  
  
“Bring the others,” Kíli tells them, motioning toward his uncle and their burglar. His allies do as he asks, lifting Thorin and Bilbo free from the muck of the battlefield as the dwarf tries not to notice how tiny their hobbit looks in Beorn's arms.  
  
While he has managed to shunt his grief aside for the moment, something about the sight of Bilbo small and broken threatens to shatter those frail walls. For his friend had stood to gain the least of anyone and if the hobbit had betrayed them, Thorin had surely mistreated him in kind. But Bolg would have been victorious if not for Bilbo's courage and so Kíli owes the burglar a debt of honor that he can never pay.  
  
 _I only wish that he had managed to save Fíli as well. I only wish that it had not kept him from seeing his green hills again._  
  
\---  
  
Thus the archer begins his kingship in a sea of blood and sorrow, those early days some of the most difficult that he has ever known. For Kíli must appear unbroken despite the weight that he now carries; he must be a beacon of hope for his people even as his shattered heart grinds in his chest.  
  
To show weakness is unthinkable when there are vultures circling his kingdom, a thousand greedy souls lusting after the treasure hoard of Thrór. Even the archer's so-called allies had been prepared to claim his gold over a sea of dwarven corpses and while all talk of reparation ended with the battle, Kíli fears that a return to bloodshed is still far too possible.  
  
It is this fear that keeps the dwarf from crying when he sees his uncle buried, Fíli and their hobbit laid in state at Thorin's side. He sheds no tears even though he should be weeping, his sorrow held back by the watching eyes on him. For Kíli could not refuse the gesture when Bard and Thranduil offered to attend his uncle's funeral and even though he does not think he will ever finish grieving, the archer swallows down his tears for them.  
  
Only later – long after Bard has returned the Arkenstone to the young king's keeping and Dáin has left for the Iron Hills with his oath of fealty sworn – only then does Kíli allow himself to break again. The dwarf crumples at the base of Fíli's tomb, beating his fists bloody against the stone until his grief echoes like thunder from the walls.  
  
“How could you leave me here alone?” Kíli screams at his fallen kindred. “How could you leave me to bear this burden with nothing to support me but the damned Arkenstone?”  
  
The archer would toss the gem back into the deepest mine of Erebor if he could because its cold brilliance has come to represent the truth of Thorin’s hollow victory in his sister-son’s eyes. The Arkenstone does not care who bled and died for its beauty; ten thousand deaths would not add warmth to that embrace. But no matter how profoundly the new King Under the Mountain despises the very sight of the gemstone, he needs the legitimacy that its ownership bestows.  
  
So Kíli weeps and shouts and curses Mahal's name until his heart feels empty and then he returns to his duty as he must.  
  
\---  
  
The rest of Durin's Folk take five months to arrive from the Blue Mountains once Roäc is sent back with news of the battle and in that time, Erebor is transformed.  
  
In exchange for a portion of the mountain's treasure and hospice through the winter, Bard’s people agree to help clear the rubble from the upper levels, a thousand forgotten corpses finally given proper burial. This is the first true negotiation of Kíli's kingship and while it feels wrong to barter away that which his family died for, the dwarf has no other choice. He needs Dale if the Lonely Mountain is to prosper and even though many of Dáin's people joined him after the battle, the task before them requires far more hands.  
  
Entire families perished when Smaug attacked Thrór's kingdom, every piece of blackened flesh and dusty bone telling a story that the archer does not want to know. But to turn away would be to dishonor all those who were slaughtered and so Kíli watches every dwarf be laid to rest.  
  
He watches and he reminds himself why he must be strong.  
  
Durin's Folk have hope now where there was only desperation and the archer cannot let that tiny spark go out. Kíli must nurture it, feed the embers until they grow into a blazing fire and Erebor stands proud upon the plain once more.  
  
Here Balin and the others are invaluable, the remainder of Thorin's company sharing the weight on their king's shoulders and giving him direction when his path is lost. For the dwarf may have been trained to rule alongside his brother but the duty that he’s accepted is as far from those lessons as his first dagger was from a masterwork.  
  
There is so much damage that must be repaired, so much that must be restored before the mountain is habitable again and some days it takes all of Kíli’s willpower just to leave his bed. No one would deny him the right to sleep a little later, not when the injuries that he received in defense of his uncle have yet to heal. But the king cannot ask his subjects to give more than he is able even though the weight of his responsibilities threatens to drown him where he stands.  
  
Kíli perseveres because he must, working alongside dwarves and men alike to complete each task that must be handled and every morning dawns a little brighter than the last. The work may be slow, but it is not impossible and by the time the first snows of winter touch the plain, there is space enough for everyone inside of Erebor.  
  
The accommodations are basic but they’re warm and the dwarf’s allies will have no cause to complain that they are not being treated equally. So Kíli puts Balin in charge of logistics and Dori in charge of making their guests feel welcome and pretends that he doesn't feel like an imposter when Bard and his people walk into the throne room on that chill winter day.  
  
Yet even if the archer’s throne still feels too large to hold him, the survivors of Laketown are too busy gawking to notice his discomfiture. For while the men have been aiding with the restoration, this is the first time their families have seen Kíli's kingdom and the dwarf is warmed by the wonder in their eyes.  
  
The Lonely Mountain may be battered, but there's grace beneath the grime and knowing this makes his task seem less insurmountable. Indeed, the dwarf manages his first true smile in weeks as he steps forward to greet his allies, welcoming Bard and his kindred into Erebor until spring comes again. Once these formalities are concluded, the men of Laketown are quickly whisked away by Dori to get settled in the upper levels near the light.  
  
It’s a smoother start than Kíli expected to their cohabitation, but these days the archer will take whatever small favors the Valar send his way. He counts himself lucky that Erebor’s deeper storerooms were untouched by time and dragon fire, these stores the only reason that he can afford to offer Bard this shelter in exchange for his people’s willing hands. Otherwise the two kings would have had to sell their lives to Thranduil just to survive the winter and Kíli still worries about the strain of the men’s extra mouths. However, Balin swears there will be supplies enough for everyone and the dwarf must trust in his steward’s expertise.  
  
If the past weeks have taught the young king anything, it’s the need for delegation because, despite his best efforts, Kíli cannot be everywhere at once. But knowing that he needs have faith in his companions doesn't stop their king from worrying, many a sleepless night spent brooding on all that’s left undone. There can be no failure here because his dead are watching and over the months that follow, the dwarf works himself to the bone.  
  
Kíli is not the only one who does not rest through the winter, his people following their king’s example even as tempers become more fragile over time. But while the close quarters certainly cause friction, this forced proximity also creates a new level of understanding between dwarves and men. There are friendships that would never have been possible in the past, long-held prejudices falling by the wayside through familiarity, and both kingdoms will be the stronger for these days.  
  
However, even though Erebor has regained much of her former splendor by the time the snow starts melting, there is still the ruin of Dale sitting on her doorstep and this thought makes Kíli quake inside.  
  
That city has been weathered by far more than dragon fire and the archer sees his fatigue mirrored in Bard's eyes when they meet to discuss logistics for the months to come. The dwarf may still feel like an imposter sometimes, but he knows that his fellow king is struggling just as much with his new responsibilities. For while the bowman is descended from Girion, he lived as a commoner until he killed the dragon and his people needed a leader to bring them home again.  
  
So despite the bad blood that had existed between Bard and Thorin, Kíli and the bowman have come to an understanding now. Both kings agree that they must present a united front to their respective peoples and they do not condemn each other in private when the cracks begin to show. Instead Bard rants to Kíli freely when the Master of Laketown's old supporters stir up trouble and the man does not judge when the dwarf bangs his head against the wall.  
  
Still, the King Under the Mountain does not allow himself to break completely in front of anyone, not even the bowman, and the stress is weighing on his shoulders by the time the rest of Durin's Folk arrive.  
  
It is spring by then, the snows melting away on the lower reaches of the mountain, and Erebor's denizens let out a sigh of relief when they can finally throw open the shutters and breathe in deep again. Though this is nothing to the new life that fills the kingdom when the remainder of Kíli's people appear on the western road, their spirits fresh and ready to tackle the remaining challenges.  
  
Indeed the dwarf hadn't realized how empty his kingdom was until it was suddenly filled with laughing families, dwarrowdams and dwarrowlings running through the halls. Because the archer had been leading a bare two score of warriors, their numbers scarcely tripled by the men of Laketown, and this here is what Kíli has been working toward. This is joy, happiness, and hope where there was none before.  
  
Thus the king finds himself smiling again as he watches Erebor's children return to their homeland and he feels like a dwarrowling himself when his mother takes him into her arms. For Dís was riding at the front of the procession and Kíli is sure that her leadership is what allowed Durin's Folk to make such good time.  
  
Indeed the dwarrowdam is a force of nature that no one can deny and it is such a relief to have her back at his side. So while the road to come is still filled with pitfalls, Kíli begins to think that he may yet survive.  
  
\---  
  
Truly those first two years are the hardest, the young king uneasy in his power and burdened by his grief. The dwarf keeps turning to speak to his brother without thinking, the shock of finding only empty air ever a bleeding wound. He cannot sleep for dreaming of a scarlet river pouring across his fingers and many an evening finds the archer kneeling by Fíli's tomb.  
  
It helps to speak to his brother, his worries spilling out in a wave of frustration until his voice is hoarse with use. The dead cannot judge him for his weaknesses and Kíli has to imagine that Thorin and Fíli would understand if they were here. Both of them knew how heavy a crown could seem, even if his uncle bore the weight far more gracefully, and Kíli can only hope that they are proud of his efforts now. The archer has to make them proud or he will never join his kin in Mahal's halls.  
  
So the dwarf allows no one else to see the cracks in his foundation, though Dís often looks at him with a mother's knowing eyes. He allows none of his subjects to see the doubts that strike him sometimes for Durin's Folk must never know how often he wishes that he were buried with his brother; how often the archer forgoes tears for fury and curses Bilbo's sacrifice.  
  
“You should have forgotten us,” Kíli screams, hurling his crown across the room to clang against the wall. “You should have gone back to the Shire and let me die in peace. It would have been better that way, better for everyone.”  
  
But the dwarf's rage always burns out quickly, his anger leaving naught but weariness behind. Because Kíli cannot escape the guilt of surviving when so many more did not; guilt that grows inside him with each new grave that’s dug. And there are still graves a plenty since every excavation of old tunnels finds more bodies: dwarrowdams and dwarrowlings who had deserved much more than this. These deaths haunt Kíli far more than the warriors who had died in battle because at least those dwarrows had had a fighting chance.  
  
Yet if the king has learned anything since taking up his uncle's crown, it's that life isn't fair at all. Life simply is in all its horror and glory and there's no point in wishing that he lived in better days. The best that anyone can do is enjoy the happiness that fate allows them and struggle onward through the sorrow and the pain.  
  
So Kíli does; he rules over Durin's Folk as best as he is able and although he stumbles sometimes, the dwarf learns from his mistakes. He learns how to negotiate with Bard, Dáin and Thranduil, how to keep his nobles in line if not always happy, and his people respond to his efforts with the utmost loyalty.  
  
How could they not adore the archer when he cares so deeply about their troubles, always ready to lend an ear or a helping hand? Indeed, he is beloved, Erebor's young king; beloved even when he's not so young anymore.  
  
For the years keep turning as they're wont to do and Kíli grows with them, his body taking the last steps to maturity. He's no longer as flighty or as quick to act before thinking, though not so quick to smile either now. Yet even Kíli's grief has softened as all wounds must scar over and these days he visits the dead in order to put his thoughts in order instead of weep or rant.  
  
The dwarf finds peace there by the tombs of his kindred, the chamber slowly becoming his sanctuary. This is one of the few places where no one will bother him and so he escapes there when the demands of his kingdom begin to weigh on his mind. Kíli tells Thorin of his struggle to find the best path for their people, jokes with Fíli about finally having a more impressive beard than his brother and finds himself missing Bilbo's own special brand of practicality.  
  
Somehow the king doubts that the hobbit would have put up with any nonsense from his guild masters and imagining their burglar's sharp remarks helps to ease the tedium when court drags on too long. Indeed Bilbo would have been a force to reckon with in the politics of Erebor and this is something the king is truly sorry that he never got to see.  
  
So even if it’s a little odd to prefer the company of ghosts to that of living people, Kíli figures that he’s entitled to some eccentricities after all his sorrow and no one can deny that the Lonely Mountain is standing strong again.  
  
His people never question where their king disappears to and it is these ghosts who comfort the dwarf when the passing years finally claim his mother's life as well. Dís had taken over those duties that a queen was usually called to handle, her deft hand ensuring that no one could fault Erebor's hospitality, and her passing leaves a hole in the kingdom that no one else can fill. So Kíli invites all who knew her to see Dís buried, her body laid in state as befits a dowager queen.  
  
But even though the archer truly loved his mother, he has no more tears with which to send her on her way. Instead the king flees as soon as he is able, curling up against Fíli's tomb and wrapping his arms around his knees.  
  
His brother is the one who comforted Kíli after their father died and it seems only right to share this sorrow with him again. Fíli would have wrapped strong arms around the archer and promised that they would get through this together, and the dwarf wishes that someone were here to say that now.  
  
Balin finds his king sleeping there several hours later, the Runemaster throwing his cloak across Kíli's shoulders and praying that he’ll find peace someday. The archer has faced more sorrow than one heart might be expected to stand without splitting and the old dwarf doesn't know how much more he can take. But as much as Balin wants to support the younger dwarf, he knows that he will not remain in Erebor much longer because the halls of Khazad-dûm are calling him. He wants to see those fabled caverns glowing warm with firelight, just as the Lonely Mountain now lives and breathes again.  
  
So the old dwarf bids Kíli a fond farewell when spring comes around again and although his king does not try to stop him, he cannot shake the feeling that this is goodbye. The archer cannot shake the feeling that Balin will never return to Erebor in his lifetime, but he buries his disquiet in the work of training a new Runemaster and manages to find contentment for a time.  
  
Contentment is the best that the king hopes for, although Kíli is never sure why he's so certain that true joy is out of reach. He is hardly the only person who has ever lost family and friends to tragedy and everyone else seems able to move on with their lives.  
  
Yet even as the years flow by and the passage of time wears down the jagged edges of his grief, Kíli knows that something is missing inside of him. Some spark is gone, some light that made his existence more than something that he must spend surviving and he sometimes misses the dwarf he used to be. But perhaps that dwarf died on the plains of Erebor all those years ago, his spirit passing onward even as Bilbo saved his life.  
  
Indeed, the king has become so used to enduring, so used to doing what must be done and nothing more, that talk of the future takes him by surprise. Because Kíli wakes up one day to discover that his people are suddenly hoping for a wedding, his legend requiring a grand love to carry on his line, and when his advisers first broach this idea, the king does not take it well.  
  
In fact, the archer storms out of the throne room in a righteous fury, his subjects scrambling out of his way when they see the fire in his eyes.  
  
“They want me to get _married,_ married to some empty-headed dwarrowdam whom I've never even met before,” Kíli announces to his dead incredulously. “They want to stick a crown on her head and call it love so that we can start breeding Erebor’s new dynasty. But I'm not going to marry someone I don't care about just to make those old dwarrows happy and I haven't had time for romance since this damn throne fell into my lap. I’ve been busy trying to restore my family’s kingdom and anyway, I can hardly fall in love with someone else when I'm still in love with you-”  
  
Kíli stops short when he hears the words he’s spoken, his declaration echoing in his mind as he stares down at Bilbo’s tomb. The dwarf has never considered the thought that his heart might be taken but now that he’s spoken this confession, he cannot deny that it rings true.  
  
For he misses the hobbit as fiercely as he misses his brother and that alone should have been a sign. But Kíli has also had as many conversations with Bilbo's tomb as he has with Thorin's, their burglar's imagined sarcasm and practical advice a constant presence when the king holds court. Indeed, the thought of the hobbit makes him smile no matter what he's feeling and indeed, his mouth is curling even now.  
  
He has built his life around a memory, one that comforts him far more than any soul still living, and the dwarf doesn't know how he's missed the truth this long. He's in love with Bilbo who is five decades gone already; Bilbo who would have been ancient had he survived the final battle and Kíli can only marvel at his heart's foolishness.  
  
“I suppose that does explain some things,” the king whispers, his lips twisting bitterly before he starts to laugh. The dwarf laughs until he cries, slumping down against the stone with his head buried in his hands. But eventually his manic humor passes and it's not as though this knowledge really changes anything.  
  
“I probably will have to marry eventually,” Kíli tells his ghosts with a sigh. “Find a dwarrowdam who does not care if I love her and sire a few children so that Durin's Line continues on. But I cannot do that yet. Give me a few years to imagine that our lives could have been happy before I let this last dream die.”  
  
Indeed, the king forbids his court from mentioning marriage in his presence, glaring his advisers into submission when they try to challenge him. Erebor will have her queen when he is ready for while Kíli knows his duty, the dwarf needs time to grieve before he can marry anyone. He needs time to mourn the love that had no chance to flower and mourn he does as the years pass by. The king says farewell to the dreams that he had not known he carried and he reminds himself that his people are worth any sacrifice.  
  
But just when Kíli has finally begun to think about a wedding, he discovers that fate has other plans in store.  
  
Truthfully, the dwarf should have realized that darkness was brewing many months before this considering the rumors he's been hearing, but the king hasn't wanted to believe that another war might come.  
  
So Kíli doesn't listen to the warnings of armies massing in the east or the whispers of old hatreds given flame and while he offers aid to any travelers who are attacked upon the road, he cannot believe the tales they tell. Shock must have addled the poor souls' memories since everyone knows the orcs of the north were broken when their leader fell. Indeed, it is only when all word from Khazad-dûm goes silent that Kíli truly begins to worry and the preparations that he makes are not enough.  
  
For even the wildest rumors never claimed that a hundred score of men and monsters were waiting for their chance and neither Dale nor Erebor is ready when their enemies attack. Instead, Dale is caught flatfooted when an army of Easterlings crosses the Redwater one fine autumn morning, skirting around Mirkwood to fall upon the city like a pack of rabid beasts.  
  
So the first shout of alarm does not come until flames are licking at the gates, the outer watch slaughtered before they could sound the warning bell, and the ensuing battle is not fair at all. Ten men swarm over the walls of Dale for every one that meets his maker and despite the skill of the city's guardsmen, they are soon overrun.  
  
There is blood running in the streets again, a slaughter such as has not been seen since Smaug burned the city, and the people of Dale can only flee their home once more. They run for the safety of Erebor, women and children cut down without mercy even as Bard's grandson tries to cover their retreat.  
  
Brand buys his people time with the arrows in his quiver and the sword his father carried, but he is far outnumbered and there is no one coming to his aid. For the mines of Erebor cannot be emptied quickly and those warriors who stand ready are barely enough to hold the mountain's gate.  
  
Perhaps if Kíli had had more warning, this day might have ended differently, but wishes serve nothing when the Valar turn their eyes away. So all he can do is watch as Brand is swarmed by Easterlings, his bow broken and his lifeblood spilled upon the field. All Kíli can do is watch as the people of Dale are slaughtered, only a scant handful reaching Erebor before they are overrun. The dwarf king watches and then, even though it breaks his heart to do so, he orders the gates sealed.  
  
There is no other choice for Erebor cannot hope to fight off such numbers and yet Kíli knows that those desperate eyes will haunt him for the remainder of his life. A span of time that is looking shorter with every day that passes by.  
  
For the Easterlings may not be able to break through the thick walls of Erebor, but they are not leaving and the archer's kingdom is not ready for a siege. The dwarves' wealth is in gold and gemstones, their skill with metal not green and growing things. Trade is the lifeblood of the Lonely Mountain, a trade that has now ceased. There will be no more carts of fish from Dale nor venison from the elves, no sacks of grain to supplement the dwarves' own efforts underground, and what they have stored will not suffice with extra mouths to feed.  
  
Indeed the weight on Kíli's heart grows heavier with each new report from Dori, the dwarf informing him that Erebor might last a year at most. The king has a year before his people are starving in their chambers and he knows that the weakest amongst them will not survive that long.  
  
However, opening the gates would be tantamount to suicide for the Easterlings have settled in to wait out their enemy, defiling the fertile earth around the Lonely Mountain to fortify their camp. It sickens Kíli to see his home so corrupted, the green grass trodden into a pit of mud and filth that recalls a bygone battlefield.  
  
But even as the whispers of his ghosts grow louder, the archer knows that he cannot stop this devastation so he bites back his fury and sends out ravens to his kin in other hills. However, all the king receives is a litany of death and destruction in reply and the day that he wakes to the sight of Mirkwood burning, he takes his bow and slaughters every foe that he can reach. This small vengeance helps to ease the clawing panic and fury in Kíli's chest just a little, enough that he can keep smiling for his people's sake.  
  
The king smiles even as he lies and promises that everything will be all right, though it will take a miracle to save the Lonely Mountain now. He lies and Durin's Folk believe him because the archer has never lied to them before.  
  
Perhaps the men of Dale know better for their dreams were shattered with the loss of their city, but they keep silent even as their elders are some of the first to fall. Men were not made to live in the earth's deeper places and without a spark of hope to sustain them, they just lie down and die. Though Kíli can hardly blame them when there is little enough hope in his own heart anymore, his people growing skinnier with each month that passes by.  
  
So when word comes that the last great kingdoms of men and elves have fallen, ill news carried on a crippled raven's wing, the king must admit that he has failed and he spends the evening weeping with his dead. Kíli does not cry for himself; he cries for his people and for the end of everything.  
  
But the dwarf cannot weep forever, not even for the future that his ghosts will never see, and so he gathers his people together when the next sun dawns. Durin's Folk have two choices now; they can either starve or go down fighting and his dwarves choose the latter as he had known they would. Erebor's children will not leave this world without a struggle; they will leave in blood and pain and fury and their enemies will suffer dearly for every dwarrow lost.  
  
With this decision made, the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain gather at the gates with their weapons and their armor, the youngest dwarrowlings tied to their mother's backs. At their head stands the Lord of Silver Fountains, his fingers clenched tightly around Orcrist and his own helmet gleaming strong.  
  
Although Kíli has long forgotten any dreams of glory, he wants to see his family again in Mahal's keeping and so the dwarf must die with a weapon in his hands. He and all his people, the king whispering a prayer for the Smith to watch over his children before giving a nod to the miners by the gates. These dwarrows had volunteered to collapse the mountain's entrance once their fellows pass into battle, denying the Easterlings the pleasure of picking through his kingdom's bones.  
  
That is all Kíli can do to protect the dead who lay beneath him and he can do even less for those dwarves soon to fall. Nothing except face the end with courage so the king squares his shoulders, gives the order, and charges forward into battle one last time.

 


	2. Prologue - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> 1) This story will make the most sense if you're familiar with both book and movie canon, but you should be able to follow it well enough either way.  
> 2) I got tired of not having a word for female elves so once we make it to the Mirkwood, I'll be using elfine. If anyone would like to see my complete chart of gender terms and other things (because there is one), you can find it [here](http://rata-toskr.livejournal.com/44143.html).  
> (Addendum: Yes, I am aware that there is a word for female elves in Sindarin. In the unlikely event that my characters are ever speaking untranslated Sindarin, that will become relevant. Until then, I'm quite happy with my terms.)
> 
> 3) While I wrote this fic as 4 very long chapters, I'm going to break it up into parts due to size restrictions on livejournal, hence the chapter title above.  
> 4) I don't know if this will be the story that anyone is expecting, but I hope you like it anyway.

Then Kíli woke up.  
  
The archer shot upright, patting his chest frantically for any sign of the injury that had claimed his life. But there was nothing, nothing but smooth skin and a phantom pain that was already fading fast beneath his hands.  
  
“Are you all right, Kí? Did you have a nightmare?”  
  
The dwarf turned at the question and when he saw his brother, all thought of his death was forgotten instantly. Because Fíli was there, hale and hearty and staring at him worriedly, and this must be the afterlife of which he'd dreamed.  
  
So Kíli lurched forward to hug his brother, wrapping his arms around Fíli's neck and holding on as tight as he could.  
  
“I've missed you so much,” the archer whispered, burying his head in Fíli's shoulder as other dwarf stroked his back soothingly. His brother was murmuring comforting nonsense into Kíli’s hair just as he used to do when they were younger and Kíli wanted nothing more than to remain here until the end of days.  
  
But eventually Fíli nudged him back, wiping away the tears that had trailed down the archer’s cheek. “Don’t cry little brother. You were dreaming, quite a nightmare by the sound of it, but you’re awake now and everything is fine. Truly, you needn't worry, Kíli. I know that our quest will be dangerous but we can conquer anything as long as we’re together and I am certain that we will be all right.”  
  
 _But we weren't,_ Kíli thought, a dawning horror filling him as he finally glanced around. This place was familiar, far too familiar even though his memory had dimmed with the weight of passing years.  
  
This was the clearing in which he and Fíli had camped before they reached Hobbiton – he remembered that strange crooked tree stump because it looked like their uncle – and unless Mahal had a sick sense of humor, this could not be the afterlife. Indeed, now that Kíli was no longer blinded by the joy of their reunion, the dwarf realized that his brother was also far younger than he should be by now. Fíli looked no older than he had been on the day that Bolg had killed him and although he feared he knew the answer, the archer had to ask:  
  
“Which quest, Fíli? Of which quest do you speak?”  
  
His brother was definitely puzzled by this question, the dwarf giving him a look that was usually reserved for Kíli's stupider drunken antics before answering. “I’m talking about the journey to reclaim Erebor, of course. You know, uncle's dream and our legacy? You were excited yesterday, little brother; are you sure that you're all right?”  
  
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine; just tired, I guess,” Kíli mumbled vaguely, his mind caught on the idea of a yesterday that had been so very long ago. If this was not some awful nightmare then the archer did not know what he would do because he had been free, free from his grief and his duty and his failures, and he would shatter if he had to watch his family die again.  
  
 _But maybe I don't,_ the once-king realized, a sudden flicker of hope piercing his despair. _If I have truly been sent back through the years by some strange magic, maybe I can save them all this time._  
  
So the dwarf forced himself to breathe evenly until his panicked thoughts stopped racing and he was able to rationally consider the road ahead again. Kíli might not be able to remember every detail of their journey, but the dangers had been rather difficult to forget and, in truth, he wasn’t too worried about those encounters that his company had managed to survive. It was the Battle of the Five Armies that troubled the once-king, but now that he knew it was coming, surely he would be able to turn their fates aside. Surely Kíli could save Thorin and Fíli with enough preparation and he was certain that Erebor would reach new heights of splendor once her rightful king was crowned.  
  
However, the archer must first convince his brother that he had not gone crazy and honestly, he wasn't entirely sure that he was sane. Because this was impossible, everything about this was impossible, and yet if the Valar had truly granted Kíli a chance to alter history, the dwarf would do anything to see that his kin survived.  
  
Which, at the moment, meant plastering a smile on his face and trying to remember how he had acted when young and untroubled by his own foolishness. It was difficult since the once-king had not been so carefree for decades but with some concentration he managed to find that place again. Indeed, Kíli wrapped his younger self around his thoughts like a mask and when Fíli finally relaxed, the dwarf knew that he'd gotten the grin right.  
  
A little crooked, far too cheerful, and loudly confident, this smile was a lie upon his face and the archer hoped that this facade would hold once they’d joined the rest of the company. For Kíli could not tell the other dwarves the truth; they would think that he was raving and force him to stay behind. No, the once-king must pretend to be his former self while working to save his kinsfolk and perhaps it would be easier to laugh and grin with time. Perhaps he might actually become that joyful dwarf again.  
  
So the archer settled down to rest at his brother’s urging, Fíli scooting his bedroll closer so that they were pressed back to back. However, despite the comforting weight of his brother’s body, Kíli had difficulty sleeping because he could not shake the fear that this was some strange dying hallucination and he would wake alone again. For any dwarf who had not earned a place in the halls of his fathers was doomed to wander in the darkness and the once-king’s failures had always seemed far heavier than his successes in the scale upon his heart.  
  
But eventually Kíli worried himself into an exhausted slumber and when he opened his eyes in the morning, his surroundings had not changed. If this was not real then it was so close that the dwarf could not risk doubting and so he told himself to stop questioning the hand that brought him here.  
  
Because it did not matter how or why the once-king had been transported to the beginning of their journey; the only thing which mattered was that he did not waste this opportunity.  
  
However, before Kíli could save anyone, he would have to readjust to his own body for when the dwarf stood, his whole world spun in place. Every step felt off, his center of balance shifted just enough to make him wobble, and Kíli hadn't realized that he had changed so much throughout the years. But now the archer felt positively gangly, like a newborn foal taking those first shaky steps upon the plain, and if the battle were to occur tomorrow, Kíli would be nothing but a liability.  
  
 _So maybe this is why I was sent back to the beginning,_ the once-king thought, thanking the Valar that he would have time to prepare. He would need a steady arm and certain aim when Bolg came for his uncle and at the moment, he had neither to his name.  
  
At least his bow was familiar since Kíli had used the same one for decades – barring that brief period before Thranduil had returned it – but when he pulled back the string to test it, he could feel the weakness in his arm. The dwarf’s arrows would fly with neither the speed nor force that he was used to and it would take at least a few hours of concentrated practice to accommodate the difference in his aim.  
  
However, that practice would have to wait because his brother was already making impatient noises by their ponies, Fíli having packed up camp while the archer fiddled with his gear.  
  
“Hurry up, will you?” the older dwarf demanded when his patience finally ran out. “We're supposed to meet the rest of the company at our burglar's house this evening and we still have a fair distance left to travel now.”  
  
“Right, of course, our burglar,” Kíli agreed vaguely as he tried to remember where he had left his whetstone and his fiddle when they’d made camp. It might have been last night for Fíli but it was a long, long time ago for him and these little details hadn’t exactly stuck his memory. In fact, his pack was something of a shambles at the moment since the once-king had utterly forgotten which items were supposed to go in which pockets and he’d just about decided to deal with the mess later when his brother’s words finally registered.  
  
 _Durin’s beard, he means Bilbo! My dear hobbit is alive and well again._ Kíli couldn’t believe that he had forgotten about their burglar – though, in his defense, waking up back in the Westlands had been something of a shock – and now that he’d been reminded, the day seemed twice as bright.  
  
For the once-king would have a second chance at love as well as family and he promised himself that he wouldn’t let it pass him by this time. Truthfully, Kíli had been dreaming of what he should have said for decades, a hundred conversations with Bilbo held only in his mind, and surely in this lifetime, the dwarf could finally get it right.  
  
Surely the hobbit must have loved him dearly to make the sacrifice he did and the archer would have months to regain that love again.  
  
So Kíli finished the rest of his packing in record time before mounting his own pony and if his brother was startled by the abrupt change in his demeanor, Fíli didn’t mention it. Instead the other dwarf just smiled indulgently when Kíli urged him to ride faster, the two of them arriving in Hobbiton earlier than planned.  
  
However, this still wasn’t fast enough for the once-king and he practically leaped out of his saddle when they reached the bottom of the hill where Bilbo lived. Indeed, Kíli’s hands were shaking so hard that he had trouble tying up his pony and if Fíli hadn’t already been waiting for him when he finished, he might have left the other dwarf behind. Because Gandalf's symbol seemed brighter than he remembered, the rune on Bilbo’s door calling to him like a beacon in the darkness, or perhaps that was just the archer's anticipation twisting his perceptions round.  
  
Yet some things were not subjective and as they walked closer, Kíli saw that Bag End was just as grand in this lifetime as it was in his memory. The smial claimed pride of place near the top of the hillside, that familiar green door framed by a verdant garden, and in this moment, the once-king truly understood what Bilbo had given up.  
  
Their burglar had had a home, one that was snug and comfortable, and yet he had risked everything to help a band of strangers reclaim their own. Bilbo could have refused them, he could have turned back instead of facing death and dragon fire, and the dwarf was filled with a new determination to repay the debt he owed.  
  
Their hobbit was going to know that someone loved him - that someone appreciated his snark and his courage - and this time no one would be dying before the gates of Erebor.  
  
So Kíli fully intended to be suave and charming and sweep Bilbo off his feet like he’d always imagined, but when the door to Bag End finally swung open, his mind went blank instead. Because his hobbit was standing there framed by candlelight and the once-king could hardly breathe for the sight of him. Short and slightly plump, with sharp eyes and soft curls just as the dwarf remembered, Bilbo was the most beautiful thing that Kíli had ever seen and the urge to kiss their burglar was almost more than he could bear.  
  
However, the once-king managed to resist temptation for the moment, though his smile must have been a little crazy given the startled look that Bilbo sent his way.  
  
“Kíli and Fíli, at your service,” the dwarves said with twin bows and Kíli could no more wipe the joy off his face than he could stop his internal wince when he called Bilbo “Mr. Boggins” by mistake. The sight of his hobbit had simply left him reeling, tongue tripping over his words in his haste to get them out.  
  
Not that their burglar seemed to notice, Bilbo much too busy trying to shut the door in Kíli’s face to worry about a name.  
  
“Nope, you can't come in. You've come to the wrong house,” the hobbit said and while the once-king knew it wasn’t personal – it couldn’t be personal when Bilbo had just met him – that knowledge didn’t stop a stab of hurt from lodging in his chest.  
  
Indeed, Kíli’s voice was rather plaintive when he asked their burglar, “What? Has it been canceled?” his plans turning to dust before his eyes. Because this rejection was not at all what the archer had expected and even though Bilbo capitulated quickly, that didn’t take away the stone.  
  
So the once-king forgot about making a good second first impression, instead wiping his boots on Belladonna's glory box just to hear the hobbit shriek. Perhaps this was a little petty for someone who had been the King Under the Mountain, but it made Kíli feel better and he needed to embrace his younger self anyway. Bilbo was going to notice the dwarf one way or the other and it was either this or kiss him right there in the hall.  
  
The latter of which was admittedly very tempting, but thankfully Dwalin walked out of the dining room before the archer could compound his foolishness. If seeing Fíli and Bilbo again had been more than Kíli had ever hoped for, seeing Dwalin was almost as joyous an occasion and the once-king threw his arm across the warrior’s shoulders with a grin.  
  
The other dwarf had been a constant in Kíli’s life for as long as he could remember; indeed, Dwalin had been fighting with his king when the Lonely Mountain fell to fire, and it was such a relief to see his friend alive.  
  
It was wonderful to see all of his companions once they arrived at Bilbo’s door with Gandalf, the archer quickly swept into a whirlwind of fond memories as the dwarves prepared their meal. There was Ori, whom Kíli had not seen since he went to Khazad-dûm with Balin; Nori, who had led Dwalin on many a merry chase through the halls of Erebor; Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur who were always up for a good story, and Dori, Óin, and Glóin to round their party out.  
  
Indeed, the only one missing was Thorin and while the once-king was excited to see his uncle, this reunion was more than enough for now. Adding Thorin to the mix might be more than Kíli’s heart could take when he was close to bursting from happiness already, the once-king’s cheeks actually hurting from the strength of his grin.  
  
But how could he not smile when he was surrounded by friends and family, even if the other dwarves did look a little different than he remembered them? That was only to be expected when it had been more than seven decades and his own reflection was seemed a stranger now. His companions’ personalities certainly hadn't changed a whit over the years, the meal quickly becoming an exuberant event as challenges and bread rolls flew back and forth.  
  
The only thing that dampened Kíli’s mood slightly was the fact that his hobbit had not joined in the festivities, instead watching them from the doorway with wide eyes. But when the once-king tried to view the company from Bilbo’s perspective, he had to admit that they might not be coming off too well.  
  
For while their burglar had always preferred things to be neat and tidy – something that was admittedly difficult out on the trail – Bag End looked more like a hurricane had hit it now. So the archer probably needed to do some damage control or Bilbo would throw them out without even hearing Thorin’s proposal and his opportunity arose when Ori asked the hobbit what he should do with his plate. Because Fíli took the dish from the other dwarf before Bilbo could answer, tossing the plate to Kíli who in turn threw it to Bifur by the sink.  
  
A challenging grin aimed at his companions was enough to cajole the rest of the dwarves into helping and soon the hobbit's dishware was flying across the room. After all, there was no reason that chores couldn't be fun as well, though Bilbo hadn't quite gotten into the spirit of things yet.  
  
In fact, he seemed rather more concerned by the potential damage to his dishes – as though any of the dwarves would drop one – and when they began tapping out a rhythm with his silver, the hobbit really balked.  
  
“You'll blunt them!” Bilbo shouted, to which Bofur replied, “Do you hear that lads? He says we'll blunt the knives,” and that was too good of a line to pass up.  
  
Because the hobbit that Kíli remembered had always enjoyed a good tune and so the once-king began to sing, a song that had filled Bag End once before and he sometimes heard on the edge of fonder memories. He still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened to his fiddle or his companions’ instruments, but the archer was sure that they'd manage well enough. Indeed, the dwarves sang a merry tune while they scrubbed Bilbo's dishes and cleaned the crumbs off his table and when they'd finished, Kíli had to smile at their host's astonishment. The hobbit must be starting to warm up to them by now and indeed, the gleaming pile of crockery on the table made Bilbo smile for the first time that night.  
  
However, just when Kíli was thinking of going over to his hobbit and reintroducing himself properly, there was a knock on the door and the laughter halted instantly.  
  
It was Thorin, the dwarf lord’s presence enough to turn his companions’ gaiety to somberness although he greeted Gandalf amiably enough. Kíli’s uncle had always been like that, an air of sorrow around him even when he smiled, and yet, when the once-king stepped forward to greet him, he stopped short in surprise. For while the rest of their company looked a bit different, Thorin might as well have been a stranger to his eyes.  
  
His beard was shaved close against his chin instead of trailing down toward his belt and he seemed much younger than he had before. Indeed, the grey hair of Kíli’s memory was only a few streaks amidst the black, and while Thorin did paint a much more majestic figure, the archer was too weirded out to be impressed.  
  
But his uncle’s appearance slowly became less jarring, the dwarf able to pick out details that he remembered amongst the rest. This was still Thorin whatever he looked like and perhaps the once-king’s memory was just that bad after all.  
  
His recollection of this party certainly hadn’t included the other dwarf’s interrogation of Bilbo, which ended when Thorin muttered a dismissive, “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” to a chorus of laughs from his company.  
  
These words did not sit right with Kíli, for while the archer vaguely remembered some of his kindred doubting Bilbo in the past and his uncle had always tended toward a brusque impatience, that had been different than this open discourtesy. They needed their burglar even if the others didn't know how badly and Thorin should have tried to be polite at least.  
  
But maybe it was simply experience altering the once-king’s perceptions since he was watching the dwarf lord more as a fellow leader than as his sister-son. After all, Kíli had spent nearly as much time as King Under the Mountain as he had as the younger prince of Durin's Folk and if those years had taught him anything, it was that kings could be wrong.  
  
So where the archer had once been content to follow Thorin into peril blindly, things were different now. Now all Kíli could do was wonder, _Was our plan actually this bad? Seriously, thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard are going to march all the way to Erebor and then what, hope Smaug leaves peacefully? I may know that the dragon has a weakness but no one else does so this is less a plan and more insanity._  
  
Although, the other members of the company were not entirely without reservations and Balin perhaps said it best when he reminded the dwarf lord, “This task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest.”  
  
However, while Kíli was pleased to know that he wasn't the only one with some doubts about his uncle's strategy, Bilbo already looked far more worried than the once-king liked. Their quest might be crazy but it would be far more difficult without their burglar and the other dwarves were going to scare him off if they kept on like this.  
  
So even though the archer knew it was a lie, he added his own voice to his brother's when Fíli stood up to support their uncle's cause. “You forget; we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”  
  
Of course, Dori then had to ask how many dragons the wizard could count amongst his slain enemies and when Gandalf could not provide him with a number, the rest of the company soon began arguing heatedly. The dwarves only stopped when Thorin stood and shouted, “Shazara!” – his bellow commanding silence amongst those who followed him.  
  
The once-king's uncle had always been charismatic, his passion able to sway even the most reasonable dwarrows into reckless loyalty. That was the spark Kíli had always lacked in his kingship, that overwhelming certainty of his own place in the world, and he found himself moved despite himself. Thorin was so earnest, so determined to do right by their people, and his sister-son swore that the dwarf lord would live to see his home restored this time.  
  
With this goal in mind, Kíli soon stopped paying attention to the company's conversation – he hardly needed to hear his uncle's long and rambling explanation of Erebor's history again when that had been his bedtime story growing up – instead throwing out a few mindless comments while thinking on his own private quest.  
  
The once-king wasn't worried about reaching the Lonely Mountain, only about what would happen when Bolg brought forth his armies, but he didn't see any reason why he couldn't make their journey a little easier. If Kíli knew what was coming then he should be able to steer the company around the worst of it and the dwarf thought that he'd identified a few key moments to watch out for when his attention was drawn by a loud thud. It was Bilbo, the hobbit having passed out on the floor, and the sight of him lying there unmoving brought back unpleasant memories.  
  
“What did you say to him?!” the archer asked, giving Bofur a furious glare before rushing over to check that his hobbit was all right. They were trying to win their burglar over not terrify him into unconsciousness and Kíli might have said more if not for his uncle's growl.  
  
“Leave him,” Thorin ordered, staring down at Bilbo disdainfully. “He will be no use to us if he faints at the slightest sign of danger and there will plenty on this quest. Better for the hobbit to stay here where it is safe and comfortable and he cannot get us killed.”  
  
To Kíli's horror, most of the other dwarves nodded their agreement and in this consensus, the once-king saw his hopes for the future going up in smoke. His own feelings aside, the archer truly did not know if this quest could succeed without Bilbo and yet he also did not see any way to change his companions' minds. For Kíli could hardly shout, “We need him to get us out of Thranduil's dungeons,” without looking like a madman to them all.  
  
Indeed, the once-king had no argument to offer when Bilbo awoke and refuse to come with them, the courage that Kíli remembered nowhere to be found. Thorin's company would not have its burglar and with no other options, the archer tried to tell himself that this was for the best. Because even if he might never have the chance to court Bilbo properly, at least the other would be far, far away from that corpse-strewn battlefield.  
  
At least his hobbit would survive and if Kíli did manage to change the fates of his kin, no one would think twice about the younger prince of Erebor. He would be free to do as he willed; free to return to the Shire without the weight of duty on his shoulders and the once-king could not care less if anyone disapproved. Because he had given his life for Erebor even if no one now remembered it and he was entitled to be a little selfish this time around.  
  
So Kíli joined the rest of the company by the fireplace, his heart twinging painfully when Thorin began to sing of the home that Durin's Folk had lost. While the dwarf's dreams no longer lay within the Lonely Mountain, he had seen Mirkwood burning and his kingdom fall and so his voice was rough as the memory of that last desperate fight washed over him.  
  
The dwarves sang until the fire began to die into embers and the last notes of their sorrow faded into the evening air. Then Thorin set his company to cleaning, the dwarves moving quietly so as not to wake Bilbo, who had drifted off around the second verse.  
  
All this excitement had been too much for the hobbit and while this likely made him seem even weaker in Thorin's eyes, Kíli found it rather adorable. So the once-king went to lay a blanket over Bilbo, tucking the fabric around his shoulders before moving to help Fíli with the carpets and if the dwarf's fingers stroked briefly across the hobbit's cheek, no one mentioned it.  
  
The company scrubbed Bag End from top to bottom, removing all evidence of their visit as Bilbo slumbered on. Although the dwarves would not be spending the night here – it would hardly be polite when the hobbit had turned down Thorin's offer – they still owed Bilbo for his hospitality.  
  
Thus the dwarves would leave the hobbit's smial as clean as it had been on their arrival and once Bag End was spotless, they drifted off by twos and threes. Nori, Dori, and Ori first, the eldest dwarf chiding his little brother for staying up so late into the evening; then Glóin and Óin, then Bofur and the others in their wake. Most of them spared little thought for the hobbit who should have been their burglar, though Balin did leave Thorin's contract on Bilbo's table in case he changed his mind.  
  
Eventually only the sons of Durin and the wizard remained, Kíli and Fíli straightening a few last knickknacks while Thorin and Gandalf finalized their plans. The once-king wished that he could join them, offer his own memories to chart the company's course a little clearer, but he had not been invited to participate. He would not be invited until he proved that he had something to offer, something more than could have been expected from the foolish lad he used to be. Indeed Kíli would have to walk a careful balance in order to warn his uncle of the coming dangers without revealing the true source of his knowledge and he had yet to decide on the best approach to take.  
  
So tonight the archer just waited with his brother until Thorin had finished his discussion; the trio saying farewell to Gandalf’s on the hobbit’s porch. Then the once-king left Bag End with his kindred, one last yearning glance cast toward Bilbo’s door before he rode away.

 


	3. Prologue - Part II

Despite Kíli's best attempts to convince himself that Bilbo would be safer in the Shire, and the dwarf spent a sleepless night trying to do exactly that, his mood was sour when his brother finally roused him from his bed. For there was a sick feeling in his stomach, a warning that said this wasn't right, and he could barely find the heart to eat. Instead the archer found himself looking out the windows of the tavern while his companions laughed and joked over breakfast, hoping beyond hope that he might see Bilbo there. But the hobbit did not appear and when Thorin cajoled his company into motion, their burglar was still nowhere to be seen.  
  
However, if Kíli's memory served, Bilbo had been quite late the first time, late enough that the dwarves had almost left without him once before. So even though the hobbit had never agreed to come with them – in fact, he had most emphatically refused the invitation – there was still a chance that he might change his mind.  
  
Besides, the once-king did not want to ruin the joyful mood with his own dark premonitions, not when this quest was as much his Fíli’s dream as their uncle’s and there was no need to speak of danger now. The dwarves should be able to manage without their burglar until they reached Mirkwood since Gandalf had been the one to save them from the trolls and goblins and Kíli was hoping to avoid those pitfalls entirely.  
  
So the archer plastered an excited smile on his face and tried not to look back toward Hobbiton too often even as he became increasingly sure that Bilbo would not appear. However, when Nori started giving odds on whether their burglar would join them, the once-king still laid his coin on Bilbo because he would rather lose the money than admit he'd given up.  
  
Kíli owed the hobbit that much loyalty after his sacrifices and the dwarf was glad for his denial when he heard someone shouting, “Wait!”  
  
The once-king pulled his pony to a halt, twisting around in his saddle to see Bilbo sprinting down the path, Balin’s contract flapping like a banner in his wake. This was more like the burglar that Kíli remembered, the hobbit's eyes lit up with excitement and his travel pack bouncing on his back. This was more like _his_ Bilbo and the archer was so very happy that the hobbit had changed his mind.  
  
Indeed, the knot in the dwarf's stomach was finally easing now that Thorin’s company was complete again, his careful justifications nothing compared to the reality of Bilbo standing there. Because the burglar’s presence should keep the coming journey much closer to the once-king's memories and thus give him every possible advantage in his quest to keep his kin alive. If this would also allow Kíli a chance to court his hobbit, well that was just a bonus; although the dwarf couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to their travels with more anticipation now.  
  
So Kíli might have been grinning like an idiot when Thorin told his sister-sons to find their burglar a pony, he and Fíli lifting Bilbo up despite his protests that he could walk just fine. But how could the archer hold back a smile when the hobbit's mistrust of his pony was so very adorable and the future was looking much brighter than it had been before?  
  
Indeed, with Bilbo there amongst them, the beginning of the dwarves’ quest passed much as the once-king remembered; it was only Kíli who had changed. The archer simply could not summon the same lighthearted exuberance that he had known in the past despite the younger body that he wore. He tried, Mahal knew he tried, but that first rush of elation at seeing his companions wore off within a week.  
  
Because the grief that Kíli had carried on his heart for decades did not fade just because time had warped around him, the once-king terrified that he would fail his purpose and be forced to live that pain again.  
  
It was bad enough in memory when every glance at Fíli contained an echo of his brother’s bloodstained body and he could not look at Bilbo without remembering the way his hobbit had gasped when impaled. Kíli would never forget that sound, not if he lived another hundred lifetimes after this.  
  
So the once-king smiled less than he used to and when they were not paying attention, he watched his companions with the desperation of someone who was not quite sure that this was real. Every time he fell asleep, the dwarf could not be sure that his kindred would still be there in the morning and he tried to embed each moment into his mind against such a possibility. For Kíli could not bear the thought of forgetting the way that Fíli's eyes crinkled up when he smiled or how Thorin always frowned when he didn't want to admit that he was lost. He didn't want to forget the light of Bilbo's smile or the sweet sound of his laughter, though the dwarf had not quite found the courage to state his admiration yet.  
  
Kíli was too busy trying to maintain his masquerade, a task that should not have been as difficult as he found it now. But when he tried to act like his younger self in mind as well as body, the once-king always went too far. The dwarf could never seem to remember the line between youth and stupidity until he crossed it and the way that Thorin sighed at his missteps didn't help.  
  
His uncle had a way of making him feel guilty for his actions, young and foolish as he had not felt since first taking the throne of Erebor. Indeed, the dwarf lord's disappointed gaze was far worse than any lecture and when Kíli and Fíli decided to tease their hobbit about his nervousness one evening – the description of an orcish raid both meant to needle the hobbit and harden him toward the dangers yet to come – the once-king thought that Thorin might strike him then and there.  
  
“You think that's funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” the dwarf lord snarled, glaring down at his sister-sons.  
  
“We didn't mean anything by it.” Kíli protested, his shoulders hunching defensively. He hadn't meant to upset his uncle; he'd only wanted Bilbo to look at him again. But the once-king couldn't seem to stop acting like an idiot when Thorin was watching and he didn't know what was wrong with him. Because it was not inexperience as the older dwarf believed, his uncle taking his sister-son’s protest as another example of imbecility.  
  
“No, you didn't. You know nothing of the world,” Thorin told him dismissively and that just wasn't fair at all.  
  
 _You are wrong, uncle. I know far too much of it._  
  
What did it matter if he and Fíli teased their hobbit? It's not as though Thorin was the only one who had suffered loss at orcish hands. But he was the only one who stalked off to brood in the darkness of the evening, the dwarf lord staring over the edge of the cliff top as though to find all answers there.  
  
Truly, Kíli's uncle was far more stern than he had remembered, the pontificating speeches replaced with gloomy majesty. For Thorin offered no words to explain his sharp reaction and while the once-king knew the reason of it, Bilbo was staring after the dwarf lord with utter confusion on his face. Confusion that Kíli might have eased in different circumstances, but as he could not remember how much he was supposed to know about his people’s history, it fell to Balin to reassure their burglar instead.  
  
“Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first.”  
  
The old warrior told Bilbo of Azanulbizar, the battle that had graced Thorin with his epithet many years ago. Balin had always been a gifted storyteller and the rest of their company soon gathered around to listen, entranced by the scenes of loss and glory that the dwarf painted with his words. But as gifted as Balin was, Kíli had seen battles that did not end in victory; he had known this gruesome carnage and he could not share the admiration that the others seemed to feel.  
  
Thráin's attack on the Misty Mountains had been ill-advised, his grandfather more interested in revenge than the safety of his people, and while Azog’s actions had been unforgivable, all the once-king could think about were the lives that had been lost.  
  
Although, as the story continued, the archer had to wonder if Balin had heard a different version of the tale. For Kíli could have sworn that Thrór had already been dead when the War of the Dwarves and Orcs ended at Azanulbizar – indeed Azog’s murder of his great-grandfather had been the cause of it – and Dáin II, not Thorin, had slain the Defiler. But perhaps Balin was simply tailoring his words to his audience since this was not Dáin's company and when the old dwarf finished, Bilbo was not the only one with moisture in his eyes. Even Kíli was affected, not by the images of glory but by the parallels to his kin’s final moments on the plains of Erebor.  
  
However, if the once-king was successful then these losses would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory, the echo of a nightmare that would not come to pass. So when the company lay down to sleep again, the archer vowed that he would work harder to win his uncle’s approval in the days to come.  
  
For while Kíli didn’t yet have a concrete plan for making his fellow kings see reason sooner, being invited to Thorin’s council would be a good place to start. If the dwarf lord thought his sister-son had some insight to offer than he might actually listen when Kíli urged him to peace instead of conflict and preparing for the Battle of the Five Armies would be far more straightforward if Erebor was actually part of the process this time around.  
  
Unfortunately, winning his uncle over was easier said than done because Thorin seemed to grow more disdainful of Bilbo with every league they traveled and it was difficult for Kíli to stop himself from standing up in their burglar’s defense. The hobbit might not be a travel-hardened warrior, but he was doing his best without complaining and Thorin should have had the decency to recognize his heart. However, the dwarf lord refused to see that Bilbo was trying and Kíli feared that arguing with his uncle now would ruin his chances of convincing him to listen later on.  
  
So no matter how much the once-king loved their burglar, he did not dare take this risk with his companions’ lives. All Kíli could do was comfort Bilbo when Thorin had been particularly harsh, showing the hobbit the correct way to tie a snare, skin a rabbit, or groom his pony so that he would not make the same mistakes again.  
  
Bilbo seemed to appreciate the dwarf’s assistance if his grateful smiles were any indication and Kíli's heart fluttered every time the burglar grinned at him. Though the once-king still had not told Bilbo of his true feelings, deciding that it would be better to gain the hobbit’s friendship before making any further overtures. For their burglar did not know Kíli yet, not the way the dwarf knew him, and he could wait until Bilbo began to show the brilliance that he held inside. Which would hopefully be soon since the once-king was coming closer to punching his uncle in the face with every day that passed.  
  
Although, in truth, it wasn’t only Thorin’s moods that were bothering the archer, it was his unthinking assumption of obedience. Understandable, perhaps, but Kíli had been King Under the Mountain for decades and while he had never asked for that burden, he was out of the habit of taking orders now.  
  
Indeed, the discordance between his current role and his ruling instincts was making the once-king tetchy and while he managed to hide his irritation from the others, his brother saw through him too easily. Fíli knew him better than anyone – or rather he knew the old Kíli – and despite the archer's best efforts, the other dwarf could tell that something was not right.  
  
“What has been the matter with you lately?” Fíli asked one evening after Thorin had told his sister-sons to watch the ponies, Kíli wincing guiltily beneath his brother's worried stare.  
  
 _Come on; get it together,_ the once-king told himself. _I can't give the game away when we haven't even crossed the Misty Mountains yet. What nonsense would the old Kíli have spouted off? Something about our uncle or archery?_  
  
Truthfully, the dwarf was sorely tempted to spill the whole story despite his earlier resolution to hold his secrets close. He had never enjoyed hiding things from his brother, largely because he was awful at it, and seven decades of separation had not changed everything.  
  
But Kíli could not speak the truth, not when the consequences might be lethal and so he blurted out a different truth instead. “Have you noticed how Thorin doesn't actually have a plan?”  
  
“I- What?” Fíli responded, eyebrows shooting up in bafflement.  
  
“Think about it, brother. We're going to march up to Erebor, find our great-grandfather's secret door and then what? Hope that Smaug died of old age somehow? That's not a plan; that's a suicide mission,” the archer babbled, the torrent of words distracting the other dwarf from his original question quite effectively.  
  
“Don't be silly, Kíli. That's why we brought the wizard and the burglar along. Even if Thorin hasn't shared every detail of his strategy, he's our uncle and we should have faith in him.” Fíli's reply was earnest and clearly meant to be a comfort, but it left the once-king shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
The dwarf couldn’t understand how he and his brother had ever followed anyone so blindly, this quest built on nothing but an axe and a prayer. Indeed Fíli, who had always stood so tall in the archer's memories, now seemed impossibly young instead; impossibly young but no less stubborn when he thought that he was right.  
  
So while this had not been Kíli's intention, he and Fíli were soon in the midst of a heated argument. His brother refused to see the truth of his words, defending their mission's reckless disregard for common sense or survival instincts until the once-king wanted to shake him violently.  
  
“ **Enough!** ” the archer finally shouted, not wanting to fight with the other dwarf anymore. “You’re the one who asked me what was wrong and it’s not my fault that you don’t like the answer that I gave. So will you just accept that I'm not trying to be disloyal and let me get back to worrying? Because I don’t want to lose what family I have left and someone in this company has to have some sense.”  
  
His brother's face softened then, Fíli reaching out to pat his shoulder soothingly. “And when did you become the cautious one, Kí? Truly, brother, every warrior in our company knows what we are facing and we are ready for whatever comes our way.”  
  
 _No, Fíli. We are not,_ the once-king thought, visions of that blood-soaked battlefield swimming through his head.  
  
But he just smiled weakly at the other dwarf's reassurance, promising Fíli that he would try not to worry as much anymore. Indeed, Kíli would have to work harder at keeping his fears hidden from his brother, although at the moment the archer was rather more occupied with wondering, “Fí? Where have our ponies gone?”  
  
There had definitely been two ponies tied to the tree across the way, a tree that had somehow been uprooted without either of the dwarves noticing. _Damn it! I can't afford to drop my guard like this. This is exactly the sort of thing that I was just worrying about._  
  
While Fíli walked over to inspect the wreckage for clues, as soon as he saw the gaping hole in the ground, Kíli knew exactly what had happened here. Only mountain trolls could have caused such damage, but the once-king had not been expecting to reach their cave so soon. He could have sworn that the company should have had at least another week of travel before it ran into these creatures – indeed, he had been planning to steer their path a little south around that time – but he must have misjudged their route somehow.  
  
Not that this was too surprising considering how long it had been since the once-king had traveled the Great East Road and how little attention he had paid to landmarks the first time around. Truthfully, Kíli's sense of time had felt off ever since he had woken up back in his younger body and this wasn't the first landmark that hadn't appeared just when he thought it should.  
  
But whatever was wrong with the archer's internal clock wasn't important at the moment; the only thing that mattered was ensuring that their company survived this night again.  
  
“Thorin doesn't need to know about this, does he?” Fíli asked beside him and although their reasons likely differed, the once-king was quick to agree.  
  
Although the dwarves had managed to escape from the trolls once, it would be better to keep the company from being captured in the first place and so Kíli needed to think of a way to get their ponies back. Thorin and the others would never agree to leave without them and telling his companions what had happened would only lead to a fight.  
  
However, just as Kíli was cursing his lack of imagination, Bilbo arrived with dinner and the once-king was sure that his problems had been solved. Because the archer knew that their hobbit could be incredibly sneaky when he put his mind to it; he just needed a push in the right direction now.  
  
So the two dwarves informed Bilbo of the situation and when he suggested telling Thorin, they were disagreed emphatically. “Uhhh, no. Let's not worry him,” Fíli said while the archer nodded fervently. “As our official burglar, we thought you might like to look into it.”  
  
The hobbit was, if not exactly willing, easy enough to drag along in their wake and thus the trio followed the trail of broken branches toward the trolls' hiding place. This was hardly a difficult feat of tracking since the path was wide enough that Fíli and Kíli could have walked abreast if they so desired and soon the red glow of the creatures' fire was visible through the trees.  
  
“What is it?” Bilbo asked as harsh laughter drifted to their ears and the once-king did not need to see his enemy in order to murmur, “Trolls,” in reply.  
  
Indeed two trolls were visible sitting by a stew pot when the dwarves dashed closer, their burglar trailing after them somewhat reluctantly. While Bilbo was clearly nervous about the situation, he had not run away and Kíli was certain that his hobbit would find the courage to do what was needed here. Indeed, when the third troll rejoined his companions with another pony held beneath each arm, it was Bilbo who spoke first.  
  
“He's got Myrtle and Minty!” the hobbit exclaimed rather indignantly. “I think they're going to eat them; we have to do something!”  
  
“Yes; you should,” the once-king agreed, nudging Bilbo toward their enemy. “Mountain trolls are slow and stupid and you're so small.”  
  
“N- n- no,” the hobbit protested, looking back at Kíli with pleading eyes.  
  
That gaze should be counted as a dangerous weapon and indeed, it took a great deal of willpower for the archer to keep from giving in. But he managed somehow, his mind reminding his heart that this was the best path open to them now. For if their burglar could release the ponies without alerting the trolls to his presence, then the company could ride out of here without any trouble and at least one more dwarf would know of Bilbo's usefulness.  
  
However, despite these justifications, Kíli wasn't able to resist his hobbit's begging gaze completely and so he soon found himself promising, “It's perfectly safe; we'll be right behind you.”  
  
The once-king needed Bilbo to know that he would never allow anything to hurt him and his actions now were not meant to be cruel. He only wanted his hobbit to have as much faith in himself as Kíli did and proving his courage here would be the first step toward showing everyone. Because one of these days Thorin was going to eat his scornful words and the archer fully intended to be there when he choked that bitter mouthful down.  
  
“If you run into trouble, hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” Fíli added when their burglar kept hesitating, the other dwarf pushing Bilbo forward again and then pulling his brother with him out of sight.  
  
“Twice like a barn owl, twice like a brown – once like a brown?” the hobbit muttered to himself. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”  
  
Bilbo looked almost betrayed when he glanced back to see that the two dwarves had disappeared and for a moment, Kíli wasn't sure whether he would follow through. But then the burglar squared his shoulders and began creeping toward the ponies, ducking close to the ground so that the trolls would not notice him.  
  
Indeed, their enemies were quite busy bickering amongst themselves and the hobbit reached their ponies without incident, though the once-king kept one hand on the hilt of his sword just in case. Kíli might trust Bilbo with his life – and he really did – but the dwarf was still going to be prepared to leap to the rescue if anything went wrong. And it seemed that a rescue might soon be required because after reaching the ponies, their burglar just sat there tugging at the trolls' pen ineffectually.  
  
 _Curse my close-shorn beard; he doesn't have his ring yet!_ Kíli realized with a start when the trolls began to argue more fiercely and Bilbo remained visible, freezing in place until the monsters settled down. _Or his sword. Damn it all!_  
  
The archer had quite forgotten that his hobbit began their journey without even a dagger to his name; indeed, he would have given him a weapon with which to cut the ropes if he’d remembered – it's not as though Fíli didn't have blades to spare. But now Kíli could only watch, praying that their burglar remained unseen and cursing violently when the Valar decided not to answer him.  
  
For one of the trolls grabbed Bilbo when the hobbit tried to steal his weapon and Kíli could not remain hidden after that.  
  
“Fíli, go summon the others! **Now!** ” the once-king ordered as he pulled his sword free of its sheath and thankfully his brother did not question his newfound authority. Instead the older dwarf just nodded sharply and sprinted off through the trees, leaving Kíli alone to confront their enemies.  
  
The three trolls were gathered around Bilbo, poking and prodding the hobbit as he dangled from their fingers, and while he had refused to give up his friends so far, the once-king didn’t want to see him suffer for his bravery. So the archer ran into the clearing and slashed one troll across the leg to get his foes’ attention before shouting, “Drop him!” as fiercely as he could.  
  
“You what?” one of the trolls replied, looking down at the dwarf with confusion on its face. He’d forgotten how stupid these monsters were, stupid and yet extremely dangerous, and he needed to get his hobbit out of their hands as soon as possible.  
  
“I said, **drop him**!” Kíli shouted again, spinning his sword around dramatically. While the move was a little flashier than necessary, the dwarf couldn’t entirely resist the urge to show off for his burglar and it served its purpose well enough. Because the troll holding Bilbo proceeded to throw him directly at the once-king, who dropped his sword to grab the hobbit from the air.  
  
They tumbled onto the ground together, Kíli shielding the burglar’s body from the impact, and although this was hardly the time, the once-king couldn’t help but flush at the feel of his hobbit in his arms. Bilbo was pressed against him almost from head to toe, warm and soft and incredibly inviting, but he only had a moment to enjoy it before the rest of their company was rushing into the clearing with a dwarvish battle cry. So Kíli shoved his more lustful thoughts from his mind and helped Bilbo back to his feet, pushing the hobbit toward the safety of the trees before join his kindred in their fight.  
  
However, while the archer had grown more comfortable with his current body over the course of their travels, he quickly discovered that he was still far from battle-ready now. Indeed, the fire burning in the once-king’s blood might have added strength to his blows, but that was slim comfort when his hands refused to follow direction properly.  
  
Half of Kíli's strikes completely failed to hit their target, only Fíli's intervention saving his brother from serious injury. The few blows that the dwarf did land flew more on instinct than strategy, muscle memory guiding him where conscious thought could not. Clearly the once-king would need to train harder because this was just pathetic and he could not afford to acquit himself so badly in the defense of Erebor.  
  
Only, as it turned out, Kíli's sudden incompetence did not make a difference because it was soon obvious that the dwarves would not win this day with the weapons that they had. The best of the Blue Mountain's smithies could not pierce the mountain trolls’ tough hides and while the old stories hinted at such natural armor, the company had not had the chance to test this truth the last time they were here.  
  
In fact, Kíli and his kindred had been captured with embarrassing ease and the once-king was proud that they’d put on a better show tonight. Yet the archer’s satisfaction disappeared when he saw one of the trolls grab Bilbo, the entire company freezing as their hobbit was held up in front of them.  
  
“Bilbo!” the once-king shouted, only his uncle's arm across his chest stopping him from charging forward foolishly. Kíli could not hope to reach their burglar before he was torn apart and trying to do so would be suicide, no matter how much the dwarf might wish otherwise.  
  
So the once-king threw his blade down with a curse as the rest of Thorin’s company surrendered, his mood darkening further when Bilbo was thrown down next to him. This wasn't right – his hobbit was supposed to remain free in order to save the dwarves from being eaten – and yet it seemed that Kíli’s attempts to make things better had only screwed them up instead.  
  
At least Gandalf was still out there somewhere but there was no guarantee that he would return in time. Not when the trolls were far too eager to begin their feasting, lashing several of Kíli's companions together for roasting and tying the rest in burlap sacks upon the ground.  
  
 _We cannot die like this. Not so painfully nor so far from our goal._ The idea was unthinkable and yet no matter how fiercely the archer struggled, he could not free himself. Indeed, none of the company managed to get loose before the trolls had finished building a spit on which to cook their captives and so the dwarves’ only chance of survival was to delay until dawn or the wizard came to save their lives again.  
  
However, before the once-king could think of something clever with which to distract their enemies, Bilbo stood up and shouted, “Wait! You are making a terrible mistake.”  
  
The hobbit soon drew their captors into a heated discussion of cooking techniques and while Kíli was too busy counting down the minutes until sunrise to pay much attention to the details of their conversation, he felt a surge of pride at Bilbo’s cleverness. Being captured hadn’t stopped the burglar from working to save his companions and surely after this, Thorin would have to acknowledge his bravery.  
  
But then one of the trolls grabbed Bombur and lifted him above his mouth, the sight nearly sending the once-king down into a morass of painful memories. Death was too close, the echo of Kíli's grief twisting a knife deep within his spirit, and the dwarf pulled himself back from the edge of panic just in time to hear Bilbo declare that the company was infested with parasites.  
  
“We don’t have parasites! You have parasites!” the once-king shouted back, insulted that his hobbit would ever suggest such a thing. Sure Kíli might be looking a little scruffy after several weeks of travel but that was no reason for Bilbo to say he was diseased.  
  
If the burglar actually thought he was infected with something awful then the dwarf might never be able to win him over and this thought was so awful that Thorin had to kick Kíli in the side before he realized what was really going on. Of course their hobbit was just trying to stop Bombur from being eaten and the archer was so embarrassed about his confusion that he threw his own voice into the ruse a bit too enthusiastically.  
  
However, even as the trolls finally began to question Bilbo’s motives, Kíli saw the light of daybreak to the east and he knew that they had managed to delay their captors long enough. Indeed, the trolls had barely taken a single step toward the burglar when Gandalf appeared on top of a rock behind them and shouted, “The dawn will take you all!”  
  
“Who’s that?” “No idea.” “Can we eat him too?” the trolls asked in quick succession, their curiosity proving to be their doom.  
  
For the wizard wasted no time in slamming his staff down on the stone beneath his feet, the enormous boulder splitting in two so that the sun shone directly onto the mountain trolls. The creatures screamed as this light fell upon them, their skin sizzling and crackling audibly.  
  
A few seconds later, there was only rock where living flesh had been and the entire company let out a resounding cheer at their close escape. _It serves them right,_ Kíli thought to himself, looking at the trolls as he waited for Gandalf to come down and cut his companions free. _That was just as unpleasant the second time around._  
  
Indeed, his back was aching from hours spent in such an awkward position on the ground and when he regained his feet again, the once-king stretched out his shoulders with a groan of relief. Only then did Kíli seek out his hobbit so that he could apologize for nearly ruining everything.  
  
“That was some quick thinking back there, Bilbo; I'm just sorry that my thickheadedness almost messed it up for you,” the archer said, truly mortified at his own stupidity.  
  
But the burglar just blushed and murmured, “Don’t worry about it,” with a glint of the sheepish smile that the once-king so dearly loved. “If not for you I would have been eaten when the trolls first grabbed me and it was my fault that you had to surrender anyway.”  
  
The burglar's voice sounded almost admiring and Kíli could not stop himself from flushing slightly when Bilbo reached out to touch his hand. He finally seemed to be making progress with his hobbit and he probably would have blurted out something utterly embarrassing if Thorin hadn’t interrupted them right then.  
  
“And why didn't you stay out of the way, _halfling_?” the dwarf lord growled, Kíli's good mood evaporating instantly. “You must have known that you would be worse than useless in this fight.”  
  
Kíli's uncle didn’t seem to care that Bilbo had helped to save his life, choosing to ignore the burglar's courage under fire in favor of his earlier mistakes, and watching Bilbo’s face fall beneath the weight of Thorin’s anger was almost more than the once-king could take.  
  
“I- I just wanted to get our ponies,” the hobbit stammered weakly and before Kíli could come to his defense, Thorin rounded on his sister-son as well.  
  
“These were the ponies that you and your brother were supposed to be guarding, were they not?” the dwarf lord asked pointedly. “Perhaps you and Fíli should round up our mounts before they stumble into the jaws of some other evil creature and we’re forced to walk all the way to Erebor. Or is that task to difficult for a pair of useless louts like you?”  
  
While Kíli was sorely tempted to refute this accusation – asking how, _exactly_ , he and his brother were supposed to chase off a bunch of mountain trolls would be a good place to start – he knew that Thorin’s words were driven as much by worry as true irritation and he was simply happy that Bilbo wasn’t the focus of his uncle’s wrath anymore. So Kíli just nodded along as the dwarf lord continued ranting, trying to appear contrite even though he wasn't really listening and eventually Thorin stalked off again.  
  
“Don't let him get to you,” the archer told Bilbo once his uncle was out of earshot, patting the hobbit on his shoulder and then calling Fíli over to do as Thorin asked. For as much as Kíli would have liked to hold Bilbo close until the burglar stopped shaking, he hadn't earned the right. Not in this lifetime, not yet, and his long years of pining meant nothing to his hobbit now.  
  
 _This would be so much easier if I weren’t the only one who remembered_ , the once-king thought somewhat despondently as he and Fíli rounded up the company's mounts. _Although I would not wish the knowledge of their future deaths on anyone._  
  
But Kíli's mood improved slightly when Thorin took several of his companions to search the trolls' hideout and Bilbo returned with a familiar weapon in his hands. That sword had served his hobbit well in the once-king's memory, indeed it had slain an orcish general, and the dwarf was happy to know that his love would have protection when peril threatened once again.  
  
Although, the archer was not expecting that moment to arrive quite as soon as it did, the company’s discussion of what to do next suddenly interrupted by a mad wizard on a sleigh. Not just a sleigh, but a sleigh pulled by rabbits and Kíli would definitely have remembered seeing such a thing before.  
  
So the dwarf could say with certainty that he had never met this Radagast, nor had he heard such dire warnings in his last lifetime. While Gandalf had periodically disappeared on some unknown wizard’s business, that business had never followed him back to his companions, and Kíli dearly wanted to know just what in Mahal’s name was happening. But before the archer could ask, all conversation was cut short as an echoing howl sounded through the trees.  
  
“Was that a wolf? Are there… are there wolves out here?” Bilbo asked, looking around nervously.  
  
“Wolves? No, that is not a wolf,” Bofur told him, seconds before a warg leaped into the midst of their company.  
  
While Thorin brought down this beast quickly with one strong blow from Orcrist – the dwarf lord's weapon back in his hands where it belonged – another warg was close behind it and Kíli's arrow barely slowed it down. Of course, this was hardly surprising since the once-king missed his target yet again but perhaps the archer could be forgiven for his distraction because none of this was right.  
  
None of this should be happening and yet the dwarf could not deny the truth before his eyes. He must have changed something, altered the pace of his company just by being different than he had been before. Because the dwarves should not have met the trolls so early in their journey and they certainly should not have been attacked by wargs before reaching Rivendell. But whatever the once-king had missed, it was too late to fix it now.  
  
For when both wargs were dead, Thorin looked down at the remains and cursed, “Warg-scouts! Which means an orc pack is not far behind.”  
  
This was ill news indeed since the company could not hope to fight off an entire pack of wargs and riders, not when they'd barely had any chance to rest after the trolls' attack. Indeed, Kíli and the others had been awake for more than a day by this point and the once-king did not like to think that some tiny act on his part had so endangered all their lives.  
  
To make matters worse, the dwarves' ponies had bolted when the wargs appeared and they would never be able to outrun their enemies on foot. But then Radagast volunteered to draw off the warg pack with his rabbits and while Kíli worried for the brown wizard's safety, the company could not afford to refuse his gesture now.  
  
So the once-king told himself that Radagast would be fine and indeed, if anyone could escape unharmed from a warg pack, it would be this wizard because his sleigh burst from the copse as though pulled by Arien herself.  
  
“Come and get me,” Radagast shouted with a wild peal of laughter and the wargs raced after him, the group soon disappearing out of sight behind a hill.  
  
Once the orcs were gone, Thorin's company left the shelter of the trees, Gandalf leading them eastward across the rocky plain. They ran for what seemed like ages over rolling hills covered with stones and scrub brush, only luck keeping one of the dwarves from turning an ankle in some hidden gopher hole.  
  
Across such ground, the warg pack would have caught them easily without Radagast's assistance and yet, the brown wizard couldn't seem to shake his pursuers off. His rabbits were fast but the wargs were damnably persistent and his twisting path forced the dwarves to stop and hide more than once. They threw themselves down in the grass or under overhanging boulders, waiting anxiously until the orcs turned away again, and all Kíli could think about was how much he hated this. He hated the ever present danger threatening his kindred and the overwhelming fear that he would fail them all again.  
  
So by the time one of the warg scouts stumbled upon the company’s latest hiding place, the archer’s hands were already shaking with worry and exhaustion and his tension ratcheted up tenfold when Thorin ordered him to take the rider out. Because Kíli needed to kill this orc before he could warn his fellows and if once-king had been himself, he would have slain beast and rider with one shot.  
  
But he wasn't himself, was he? The dwarf was an old soul shoved back in his younger body and while his sword hand was slowly growing stronger, his aim had not recovered yet.  
  
So while Kíli did manage to hit the orc, he caught his foe in the shoulder instead of the throat as he intended, and the orc nearly managed to sound his horn before the archer released another shot. This arrow brought both creatures down, the rest of Thorin's company leaping forward to finish off their enemies. But while the orc fell silently, the warg was a different matter and the rest of its pack could not have missed the tortured screams that it let out before it died.  
  
The dwarves' enemies had been alerted because Kíli could not do the job he had been given and Thorin's annoyed glare made him cringe inside. The archer should have done better; he had been the goddamned Lord of Silver Fountains after all and he had bested Bard the Dragonslayer in a contest once or twice.  
  
So the once-king was damn well going to act like he had deserved the crown his people gave him and when the warg pack managed to corner its prey near a large group of boulders, Kíli stood tall against the tide. Not that this made the archer's aim any better but he would fight until his quiver was empty in the defense of his kin. Indeed, the dwarf shot arrow after arrow as he slowly retreated toward the rocks with the rest of his company, thinning out their enemies as best he could.  
  
However, even if Kíli had been able to hit more than half his targets, arrows alone would not have won this fight. The dwarves needed a miracle and he was rather hoping that their wizard might think of something clever soon. But when the archer glanced back at the boulders, Gandalf was nowhere to be seen and none of the company seemed to know where he had gone when Kíli asked.  
  
If the wizard had abandoned them, the once-king would curse Gandalf’s name upon his dying breath as the faithless friend that he had proved to be. For the once-king might have forgiven the wizard for leaving his company at Mirkwood – and he had, reluctantly – but to disappear now would be a far worse crime than that.  
  
However, before the dwarves could curse their erstwhile companion too fiercely, he reappeared from amongst the rocks and shouted, “This way, you fools! To me!”  
  
“Come on, move! Quickly, all of you!” Thorin ordered, the other dwarves running toward the crevice that Gandalf had uncovered while Kíli and his uncle stayed back to cover their retreat.  
  
Only once the rest of their companions were safe within the rocks did Thorin shout for his sister-son to join him, the archer slinging his bow across his shoulders and sprinting toward the stones. He leaped into the gap moments before his uncle, the two dwarves sliding to a stop at the bottom and then turning to face the opening warily.  
  
Kíli fully expected the dwarves’ enemies to follow them into the crevice and he knocked another arrow for the moment that a silhouette appeared against the sky. But it seemed that his arrow would not be needed because the sound of the company's panting was soon drowned out by the echoing peal of hunting horns. The rumble of hooves and the wet thunk of steel through skin told the rest of the story, the orc who fell at Thorin's feet moments later proving it beyond a doubt.  
  
Because that was an elvish arrow buried in the creature's flesh and Kíli was pleased to know that Elrond was still a worthwhile ally in this life. Indeed, something in the once-king eased when Gandalf led the company further into the rocks and their path came out inside the hidden valley of Rivendell.  
  
Whatever dangers lay in the world outside, Rivendell had always been a place of rest and healing and the archer could not understand why his uncle was so angry that Gandalf had brought them here. Hadn’t the company meant to seek Lord Elrond’s counsel since no one else in the Westlands could read the dwarf lord’s map? Kíli certainly hoped that Thorin hadn’t been intending to find Thrór's hidden door without even the map’s short verse to guide them, particularly since the once-king had forgotten several of the lines.  
  
But when Elrond returned from orc hunting, Kíli's uncle greeted the elf lord with far more suspicion than was warranted. For while Thorin had always spoken of Thranduil with this sort of deep-seated hatred, Durin’s Folk and the Western elves should have been allies if not the closest friends.  
  
To make the situation even weirder, the archer was the only one who seemed surprised by his uncle’s words and actions, the rest of the company responding with just as much suspicion when Elrond welcomed them in Sindarin. He was offering food and shelter but Glóin and the other dwarves reacted as though he’d offered insult and surely the once-king could not be the only one who spoke the elvish tongue?  
  
Not that Kíli was supposed to know Sindarin fluently, but he was prepared to make up months of private study to explain his sudden talent if it would stop a needless fight. However, that turned out to be unnecessary for Gandalf stepped forward to tell his companions the truth of Elrond's hospitality.  
  
After a brief discussion, food proved more powerful than suspicion and even Thorin relaxed somewhat once Elrond's steward led the company to a well-laden table, enough food and drink to satisfy even the largest appetite. Admittedly there was more greenery and less meat than most dwarves preferred in their repast but Kíli, at least, was too starved to care.  
  
So the once-king dug in with a will and by the time Elrond joined the company, he was feeling much more himself. He joked with Dwalin, laughed at Ori and listened with interest when their host explained the history of the blades that Thorin and Gandalf had taken from the troll hoard earlier that day. Indeed, Kíli might have carried Orcrist in his uncle's memory, but he had forgotten that the wizard's sword had earned a name as well. Glamdring and Orcrist would serve their new masters proudly, though it was the as yet unnamed Sting which Kíli was still most pleased to see.  
  
However, that blade was not part of Elrond's story and when the elf returned Orcrist to Thorin, the dwarf lord thanked him almost civilly. So perhaps Thorin's earlier rudeness had simply been due to exhaustion and his dislike of being rescued rather than some deeper conflict, which meant that the rest of the dwarves' stay in Rivendell should pass peacefully.  
  
Truthfully, Kíli was quite looking forward to a few weeks of rest in which to practice his archery and create a better plan. The once-king needed to use the years the Valar gave him to anticipate the coming dangers and avoid them instead of running around in a panic every time a monster howled.  
  
The archer also planned to use this time to talk to his hobbit because Bilbo was never going to fall back in love with him again if all of their conversations were interrupted by Thorin's glaring or one of Bofur's stupid jokes. Kíli needed to show his hobbit that he wasn't actually as foolish as he'd probably seemed during the first part of their journey and these two weeks in Rivendell would be the dwarf's best chance to start courting the burglar properly.  
  
The once-king would have time to state his intentions since the company had to wait for the moon to be aligned correctly before Elrond could read Thráin's map and so he did not think much of it when Thorin, Bilbo, Balin and Gandalf went to meet with the elf lord later on that night. Kíli was busy enjoying a late-night meal with his companions, snacking on fire-roasted sausages while he and Fíli traded jokes back and forth.  
  
One lighthearted evening would be just the thing to put him in the right mood for romance since Bilbo did not need to know about his sorrows yet. Perhaps someday far in the future, Kíli might be able to tell his hobbit about the life that he had lived without him, but it would doubtlessly be better to stick to flowers and stories from his childhood for now. For the once-king had seen some lovely violets on the way into Rivendell and Bilbo had always enjoyed his descriptions of the fire moon near Dunland when Kíli had told the tale before.  
  
So even though Thorin and his companions returned too late for the once-king to speak with Bilbo again that evening, he was not particularly worried about the missed opportunity. Kíli would have days to woo his hobbit before the dwarves left Rivendell and a good night's sleep might lower his chances of making a complete fool of himself.  
  
But instead of waking comfortably to the fresh scent of elvish bread rolls, the archer was shaken from a sound sleep before the crack of dawn. He looked around in confusion to see the other dwarves packing up their gear, Thorin ordering his sister-son to his feet when the once-king hesitated for too long.  
  
 _This doesn't make any sense,_ Kíli thought, completely flabbergasted by the time that he had lost.  
  
Even if their company had been traveling with greater speed in this lifetime than in the last, there was no way that the elf lord should have been able to read the moon runes on Thorin's map. But when Kíli mentioned this concern to Balin, the older dwarf assured him that Elrond had translated the runes without any trouble and the once-king could not understand how this was possible. Because leaving Rivendell now would alter the entire timeline of their journey and Kíli did not want to imagine what this change might mean. However, Thorin could not be dissuaded and so despite the archer's misgivings, their company marched out with the dawn.  
  
 _Perhaps this will allow us to avoid some of the dangers that we faced in the past_ , Kíli told himself, trying to remain optimistic about their chances even as the absence of their wizard left him cold inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot point this fic is built around may be clear by now; though I'm not going to say what it is to avoid potential spoilers. In fact, I have to admit that I'm hoping for some confusion, but if you have any questions feel free to ask.


	4. Prologue - Part III

From the moment that Thorin's company left Rivendell, nature itself seemed to be ranged against them, the dwarves' every step taken into a fierce and driving rain. Even in the lower reaches, the storms were almost constant, the icy sleet soaking through Kíli's clothing until he quite forgot what it felt like to be dry.  
  
The weather only grew worse with every league the company traveled, rain and sleet turning into hail and howling gusts of wind when they neared the Misty Mountains' highest peaks. Indeed, Bilbo nearly tumbled from the path more than once from the sheer strength of the wind, only the weight of his pack giving the dwarves enough time to grab their burglar before he fell. After the third close call, the company made sure that someone always had a hand near Bilbo so that they did not lose him, though the hobbit was hardly the only one who was miserable.  
  
 _Durin's beard, why was I so bloody skinny?_ Kíli cursed on many a chill evening, huddling next to his brother and sorely missing the extra pounds of muscle that he had gained in Erebor.  
  
Even Bombur began to lose his cheer after endless days of sodden travel, the company's progress slowing to a crawl. Indeed, Thorin's face grew darker and darker with every week that the dwarves spent in the Misty Mountains and Kíli was beginning to share his uncle's frustration by the time they reached the highest pass. For the dwarves had already lost the time they'd gained by leaving Rivendell so quickly and their original journey had not had many days to spare.  
  
Thranduil's dungeons alone had cost Thorin's company an entire month of travel and Kíli was trying to think of a way to avoid being captured in Mirkwood when the mountains began to shake beneath his feet.  
  
“Watch out!” Someone yelled, the once-king looking up to see a massive boulder flying toward the company. This hunk of rock slammed into the cliff above Kíli's head with a deafening crack that left his ears ringing even as the force of the impact almost knocked him from his feet.  
  
“This is no thunderstorm; it’s a thunder battle!” Balin shouted, the words nearly inaudible over the rushing wind and rain. “Look!”  
  
The old dwarf was pointing into the storm, Kíli following his hand to see large shapes moving through the wall of rain before another thunderous impact made him duck his head again. The archer didn't need to see the creatures clearly in order to know that they were giants – indeed, his memory filled in the details well enough – and he was rather more concerned with staying on the path right now.  
  
However, not all of the once-king's companions shared his survival instincts, Bofur stepping to the very edge of the cliff as he tried to get a better view. “Well bless me, the legends are true. Giants! Stone giants!”  
  
The other dwarf sounded more impressed than frightened and to be fair, the giants weren't actually attacking Thorin's company. They were far more interested in slaughtering each other than they were in Bofur, but their argument was no less dangerous for this truth. Because the dwarves were still trapped in the middle of a massive battle and the combatants were paying no more attention to them than the dwarves might pay to a bug beneath their boots.  
  
“Take cover, you’ll fall,” Thorin yelled, pulling Bofur away from the edge just as another boulder slammed into the mountainside. This impact was the strongest yet and the dwarves held onto each other tightly to keep from falling into the canyon down below.  
  
“What's happening?” Kíli shouted, trying to see the stone giants around the barrier of his uncle's back. Thorin had pushed his sister-son against the cliff face when the last missile landed, blocking the once-king from danger with his own body, and while Thorin’s protectiveness was understandable, it was rather irritating now. Kíli couldn’t brace for the next impact when he couldn’t see the boulders coming, but when the dwarf finally managed to get a clear view of the giants, he did not believe his eyes.  
  
Because these were behemoths of rock and stone instead of the enormous men that he remembered, their bodies carved whole from the mountainside. Indeed, they were the mountain and in this moment, Kíli realized that his private quest might be much more problematic than he’d thought. For the once-king had assumed that the only changes to their journey would be those of his own making and this was swiftly being revealed as the utmost arrogance.  
  
Yet the dwarf did not have time to dwell on this revelation when the very stones upon which he was standing suddenly began to crack and sway. A third giant was rising from the mountain and Thorin’s company was positioned straight across the creature's legs.  
  
So the dwarves scrambled for safer ground, the once-king following his uncle as he ran further up the path. The trail was quickly disappearing into a mass of cracks and fractures, Kíli leaping one last gap to land on solid rock again before turning back at Fíli's panicked shout.  
  
“Kíli!” his brother yelled, reaching for the archer as the stones gave way. “Grab my hand! Kí...!”  
  
The once-king tried, but it was too late, their fingers missing each other by inches as the giant broke free of the mountainside. Kíli could only watch in horror as Fíli and his companions were swept away into the storm, the dwarf’s heart stuttering in his chest at the thought of losing those he loved.  
  
In truth, Thorin's grip on his shoulder was the only thing that stopped the once-king from jumping in an attempt to reach his brother because the once-king would rather die than live alone once again.  
  
But his uncle had halted the archer’s instinctual leap toward Fíli and even Kíli wasn’t quite mad enough to try again. Instead he stood frozen as the three stone giants continued their titanic battle, the creatures throwing missiles back and forth until the newcomer was struck down by a well-placed chunk of rock.  
  
The giant stumbled back against the mountain and then began to crumple, those trapped on its legs shouting with alarm as they plummeted toward the rock. There was a thunderous crash when the giant’s body slammed into the cliff face and while the remaining dwarves could not see their companions around the curve of the pathway, the once-king feared the worst.  
  
“No!” He screamed, his voice intermingling with his kindred's fearful cries.  
  
“No! No! No!” Thorin shouted before charging forward, the dwarf lord calling Kíli to follow after him.  
  
The two dwarves rounded the corner at full speed, panic lending their feet wings, and the once-king nearly collapsed with relief when he saw Fíli lying on the stone. Because the other dwarf was bruised and battered but alive, as were the rest of their companions, and Kíli could ask no more than that right now.  
  
His brother was fine and his burglar was... _missing?_  
  
“Where's Bilbo? Where's the hobbit?” Bofur cried even as the once-king looked around wildly.  
  
His nerves couldn't take these sudden shifts between panic and elation and when the dwarves spotted Bilbo hanging from the edge of path by his fingertips, Kíli might as well have been a helpless dwarrowling again. The archer stood frozen while his companions tried to pull their burglar to safety, even Ori jumping forward to grab Bilbo's hand. But the rocks were too slick and when the hobbit lost his grip again, Thorin swung down over the edge to boost him up. It was a near thing even so and the entire company breathed a sigh of relief when both the hobbit and the dwarf lord had regained the path again.  
  
“I thought we'd lost our burglar,” Dwalin said, patting Bilbo on the shoulder and something about this statement set Thorin's temper off.  
  
“He has been lost ever since he left home,” Kíli's uncle growled, sneering down at their burglar. He seemed to consider it a personal affront that the hobbit had needed to be rescued even though any one of his companions could have fallen just as easily.  
  
Though perhaps the once-king should not have been surprised by Thorin's fury since his uncle had been refusing to see Bilbo's worthwhile qualities from the moment that the company left Hobbiton. Indeed, Kíli could not understand it for while his uncle and his hobbit hadn't been the best of friends in their previous lifetime, there had at least been a grudging respect between them rather than this endless scorn.  
  
However, as much as the archer wished to reassure Bilbo that he was a valued member of their company – and he greatly feared that their burglar was taking Thorin's words to heart – he could not find his chance. For the encounter with the stone giants had made his uncle even more protective of his sister-sons than usual and he would not let either of them from his sight. Indeed, Thorin made sure that Fíli and Kíli laid their cloaks down next to his when the company took shelter in a nearby cave, the space small but infinitely more comfortable than the roaring storm outside, and there was no way that the once-king could sneak off before the morning's light.  
  
So Kíli lay down upon the stone, cursing his uncle's vigilance and trying not to stare at Bilbo too obviously. The hobbit looked far more disheartened than he liked to see and the once-king felt like such a coward when he turned his face away. But Bilbo would hardly be willing to speak freely with Thorin listening to their discussion and Kíli's duty to his family would always come before the desires of his heart.  
  
Until the safety of his friends and family was secured, the once-king could not afford to say anything that might make his uncle doubt him and speaking truth to their burglar would do just that.  
  
Of course, none of this would have been an issue if the dwarf lord hadn't been acting like such a bastard and in this moment, Kíli rather wished that he had never stepped foot outside his door. Not to join this mad quest anyway.  
  
For while the once-king had loved his people dearly, he had never believed that Erebor was worth the price it cost. Gold and gemstones and all the heirlooms of Thrór's kingdom could not compare to the lives of his kindred, and while life in the Blue Mountains had not been easy, Durin’s Folk had done well enough. Indeed, Kíli had learned far more about the world while guarding caravans and selling goods at market than he might have as a pampered prince of Erebor.  
  
So if the once-king had not known that Thorin would never be happy until he reclaimed his homeland and Fíli would never be happy as long as their uncle’s dreams went unfulfilled, the dwarf might have tried to convince them to turn back.  
  
Kíli could have wooed Bilbo just as well in the Shire as he could on the road to Erebor – much better probably – and while Smaug would still control the Lonely Mountain, Thorin did not truly need the Arkenstone to be the king of Durin's Folk. His people followed him for love not glory but the dwarf lord had never been able to believe this as long as the shadow of Thrór's lost treasure still weighed upon his heart.  
  
Which was why thirteen dwarves and a hobbit were slogging their way through the Misty Mountains in Thorin’s service and Kíli really needed to regain his strength for the trials still to come. Yet even as the rest of his companions began to drift off into slumber, the once-king found himself wide awake instead. His body was exhausted but his mind was whirling, the encounter with the stone giants having thrown his surety into doubt again.  
  
Indeed, the archer stood on the edge of a revelation, a truth that teased at his thoughts until denial shut it out again. Because the world could not have been changed so greatly and he must simply have misremembered the stone giants from his past.  
  
With this thought held firmly in his mind, Kíli allowed the sound of the rain to lull him into a doze, though it seemed like he had just closed his eyes when a new noise snapped him alert again.  
  
It was Bilbo, the hobbit sneaking away in the middle of the night like a true burglar, and while the once-king’s heart protested this decision, he couldn’t fault his beloved for not wanting to stay. After all, Kíli had hardly given him a reason to endure Thorin’s constant derision, not one beyond simple friendship, and that was cold comfort on a night like this.  
  
To tell the truth, the once-king wasn’t sure if Bilbo even liked him very much at the moment because the dwarf had been counting on the company’s long days in Rivendell to begin his courtship under optimal conditions and the loss of that opportunity had thrown him off his game. Rain and crags were a far cry from the flowers and romantic walks that he’d imagined and he’d barely talked to his hobbit during the last days of their climb. In fact, Kíli had barely talked to anyone, the constant damp and chill making him so irritable that only Fíli and Thorin had been willing to walk next to him in line.  
  
So while the dwarf hated to think that Bilbo was capable of abandoning his companions without even a farewell to mend their sorrow, he would not stop the burglar from departing now. Indeed, the once-king’s loyalty to duty had its limit and if his hobbit truly wished to return to the Shire then Kíli could not make him stay.  
  
After all, a miserable burglar would be more burden than advantage and even if this would make it more difficult for the archer to save his family, he would find another way.  
  
Indeed, on further contemplation, Kíli saw no reason that Thorin’s company must reclaim Erebor this year rather than the one that followed and it would be easy to ensure that Thranduil kept the dwarves imprisoned without Bilbo there to break them out. After Durin’s Day had passed, the once-king would have an entire year to make peace between his uncle and the elf king, and with a bit of luck, the dwarves of Erebor would have allies long before Bolg attacked. It’s not as though Kíli truly needed Bilbo to discover Smaug’s weak spot when he already knew it and the men of Laketown would look on Erebor more kindly if the dragon died before burning down their town.  
  
Although, it seemed that the dwarves might have their burglar after all, for Bilbo’s departure was stopped by Bofur, who had been standing watch near the entrance of the cave. While Kíli could not hear what the other dwarf was saying, he was certain that Bofur was asking the burglar to stay and perhaps the miner’s earnestness could heal the damage that Thorin’s scorn had done.  
  
At least he was making the attempt, which was more than could be said for any other member of their company. In truth, Bofur was one of the few who had always treated Bilbo with friendship and while the once-king had sometimes resented the other dwarf’s interruptions, he was also grateful for the chance to hear his hobbit laugh. But tonight even Bofur could not convince their burglar to change his mind.  
  
However, the miner had managed to delay him and it appeared that the fates were not ready to let Bilbo Baggins go just yet. Because Bofur’s farewell was cut short by the glint of blue from Bilbo’s scabbard, Thorin shouting an alarm when the floor of the cave began to split apart beneath his company.  
  
The dwarves scrambled to their feet, tossing cloaks and weapons on haphazardly. But they could not fight without firm ground to stand on and all the once-king could think was, _Oh, fuck, not again,_ as that ground disappeared.  
  
While Kíli hadn’t forgotten about the goblins in the Misty Mountains, he had been a bit distracted, and anyway, Orcrist should have glowed a warning when such creatures were nearby. But Thorin’s blade remained dark even as Bilbo’s sword shined brighter and with such little notice, the dwarves could not hope to escape their enemies.  
  
Instead the company tumbled into the depths of the mountain as the last of the cave floor vanished, rough-hewn tunnels funneling them into the goblins’ trap. Kíli tried to slow his fall but he was traveling too fast to do more than bang his fingers and the rest of his companions were no better off.  
  
The dwarves fell at least a mile by his reckoning – though the twisting tunnels made it difficult to judge – and then landed in a crudely woven basket clearly built for prisoners. Although their pace had slowed enough to keep their bones from breaking, the impact was still hard enough to knock the once-king’s breath from his body and leave him gasping on the stone. _That's going to leave a bruise,_ Kíli groaned, his attempts to breathe growing increasingly labored as the rest of his companions fell on top of him.  
  
Indeed, the once-king was almost grateful when spiny goblin fingers dragged him to his feet and he could take a breath again. The dwarves were poked and prodded forward and while they struggled fiercely, their enemies far too numerous to fight. However, despite the mob of goblins that surrounded Thorin’s company, Kíli somehow lost track of Bilbo and by the time he reached the goblin king, the burglar was nowhere to be found.  
  
 _Thank Mahal for small favors,_ the archer thought, pushing down the knot of worry in his chest. His hobbit might be alone in the deeps, but he had fallen once before and survived to tell the tale. Indeed, the experience had tempered Bilbo during their last journey, giving the hobbit a confidence and a magic ring that he had not had before, and so Kíli told himself to trust in their burglar.  
  
If Bilbo was going to stay then he would need to find his courage and the once-king had his own problems now. For the goblin king was even more grotesque than the dwarf had remembered: huge, pale, and corpulent, the monster loomed over his captives and order them searched thoroughly.  
  
“What are you doing in these parts? **Speak!** ” the goblin king demanded once Thorin’s company had been stripped of anything worth value and when the dwarves refused to answer, he threatened to torture Ori until his command was satisfied.  
  
So Thorin stepped forward to stand for his companions, the goblin king immediately focusing his attention on the most valuable prize amongst his prisoners. But where Kíli had vague memories of a surreally polite conversation, the discussion took a very different track this time. Indeed, the goblin king greeted Thorin by name and title, speaking of bounties and Azog the Defiler as though the pale orc still walked amongst the wilds, and this was another sign of truths that should not be.  
  
Something much larger than Kíli was at work here, something that the once-king did not truly wish to think about.  
  
So he didn’t; the dwarf told himself that the goblin king must be lying and pushed the implications of the creature's words from his mind to focus on his imminent demise. Not the most cheerful of subjects but one that Kíli found rather pressing as the goblins began to wheel great instruments of torture toward Thorin’s company.  
  
It seemed that the dwarves' captor intended to torment his prisoners before he killed them and his joy at the prospect was more disturbing than his appearance could ever be. The goblin king actually started to sing about the pain and suffering that he planned to inflict upon his captives and the sight of him dancing around the cavern was not one that Kíli would be able to forget easily.  
  
However, before the creature could begin his work, one of the other goblins recognized Orcrist and the dwarves' enemies went berserk at his panicked shout. The sight of the elvish blade stirred the goblins into frenzy, the goblin king leaping back onto his throne as though to hide behind it even as he shouted for his subjects to slaughter everyone. Beginning with Thorin, the dwarf lord's captors forcing him down to the ground and raising a wicked knife above his neck.  
  
At this, Kíli and his companions began to struggle even harder, twelve dwarves watching in horror when that foul blade began to fall.  
  
But before the knife could reach its target, a sudden shock wave swept through the cavern, destroying the torture machines and flinging several goblins into the air. Everyone else was knocked off their feet by the force of the explosion, even the torches blown out as this burst of power rushed back to its source.  
  
“Take up arms. Fight! Fight!” a voice shouted, the once-king looking up to see Gandalf approaching through the gloom.  
  
The wizard was making a habit of these last minute rescues – indeed, it seemed to be his nature – and the archer was sorely tempted to explain the concept of promptness most emphatically. However, at the last second was far better than too late and given the current situation, his lecture would have to wait.  
  
So Kíli grabbed his weapons from the stone while the goblins were still dazed by Gandalf's magic and then followed his companions as they fought their way towards the light. The wizard’s blast might have given the dwarves their freedom, but their enemies recovered quickly and they had the advantage of numbers on their side. In truth, the only thing that kept Kíli and the others from being overwhelmed in seconds was the maze-like structures that made up the goblins' kingdom, twisting pathways and narrow bridges holding the creatures back.  
  
Yet despite the odds that stood against his kindred, it was not fear that made the once-king's heart pound within his chest. Kíli could not be afraid when his body was finally answering him exactly as it should and if he became a little reckless in his jubilation, this was understandable after the weeks that he had had.  
  
Indeed, the worries of his future and the sorrows of his past disappeared beneath the quicksilver slash and thrust of the blade within his hands. There was only this single moment, nothing but the next goblin charging toward him to be slaughtered by his kin.  
  
However, such a moment could not last and when the company was finally cornered on one of the goblins' swinging bridges, Kíli felt the cold touch of reality wash over him. Because there were not enough arrows in all of Erebor to match the sheer numbers ranged against them, the goblin king appearing on the path before Gandalf with a roar.  
  
“You thought you could escape me?” the creature shouted, nearly knocking the wizard over with a swing of his mace. Yet Gandalf was not one to be defeated easily and moments later, he darted forward to slash the goblin king across his throat.  
  
Dwarves and goblins alike stood frozen as the monster crumpled, the sheer weight of his body making the bridge creak dangerously. Goblin architecture might be impressive in its own way but it was not very sturdy and Kíli could not be too surprised when the structure suddenly dropped out underneath his feet. The remains of the bridge slid down the wall of the cavern, gathering speed until the dwarves were barely able to hold on and if Mahal had not built his children sturdy, the landing might have killed them all.  
  
As it was, the once-king gathered another score of bruises and a possible cracked rib as rock and timber crashed around him, the body of the goblin king falling on top of the wreckage to add insult to injury. But when Kíli finally managed to pull himself free and looked back toward the rocky heights from which the company had fallen, he knew that their ordeal was not quite over yet. Because there was a horde of goblins swarming toward them, a legion out for blood, and the dwarves had no choice but to run.  
  
One mad dash later, Kíli and his companions spilled onto the eastern steps of the Misty Mountains, those dark tunnels left far behind by the time they finally stopped. The dwarves gathered together in small clusters, each checking on the safety of their closest kindred while the wizard took a total count.  
  
“Where's Bilbo? Where is our hobbit? _Where_ is our _hobbit?!_ ” Gandalf demanded after counting the members of Thorin's company and coming up one burglar short.  
  
However, the wizard received no explanation for this absence, just a smattering of excuses mixed with finger pointing as the dwarves passed blame around. Glóin said Bilbo had been with Dori while Dori denied everything and Dwalin just seemed angry at their burglar for being lost. Indeed, Kíli was one of the few who stayed silent but the once-king had nothing to offer to the conversation now.  
  
All he had was his faith that Bilbo would soon join them, and if his hobbit did not survive the Misty Mountains, Kíli would never be able to set aside his guilt.  
  
 _What if I was supposed to save him?_ the archer wondered. _What if his survival wasn't fate at all?_ Perhaps it was only luck that had rescued Bilbo in their first lifetime and longer that the hobbit went without reappearing, the more Kíli began to worry that death was exactly what he had encountered in the deeps.  
  
For the dwarf saw nothing but empty forest where his burglar should be standing and he didn't even have the heart to argue when his uncle began spewing hate again. If Bilbo was truly dead then Thorin's opinion of him no longer mattered and while he deserved to be remembered as more than a craven coward by the dwarf lord's company, Kíli, at least, would honor him. He knew how to mourn even if he had failed at courtship and he swore that Bilbo would never be forgotten while he still lived and breathed.  
  
But it seemed that fate was on the once-king's side in this because Thorin had just finished listing off their hobbit's failures when Bilbo stepped out from behind a tree and told the dwarf lord off as he deserved.  
  
“Bilbo! We'd given you up!” Kíli exclaimed, certain that he was grinning like an idiot again. There was something seriously wrong with him, his moods swinging wildly between joy and depression, and it was no wonder that he hadn't managed to woo his hobbit properly. The once-king couldn't even understand his own mind any longer and the doubts that he had tried so hard to ignore were a shouting clamor now.  
  
 _I was the King Under the Mountain; I lived through the brightest and the darkest times Erebor had to offer so why can't I seem to make use of my experience? Why do I keep reacting to each new trial like some useless dwarrowling? I should have been able to map out the path we took before and steer us around the dangers, but instead I've been allowing Thorin to lead us into suicide and panicking whenever a warg howls... WARGS!_  
  
Kíli had forgotten that his companions were not safe here on the mountain; when recalling the long series of catastrophes that had made up their journey, this one had slipped his mind. However, the baying of the warg pack in the distance was bringing back those memories, flashes of fire and fear in the night as Thorin's company ran down the mountainside.  
  
The archer had been terrified then, treed by wargs and helpless as he had never been before, and he felt a shiver run through him when the dwarves took to the boughs again. Yet that was only a ghost, the echo of a memory, so Kíli shoved that fear down deep. Gandalf would save his companions because the wizard had done it once already and the once-king would not give these goblins the satisfaction of seeing him sweat again.  
  
Only the threat was not goblins, not this time, and when Azog the Defiler rode forth upon a great white warg, Kíli felt the world shift beneath his feet.  
  
 _He looks like his son,_ was the once-king's first nonsensical thought, that grim visage threatening to make him lose control. For if Bolg had nearly managed to wipe out the line of Durin, what worse destruction might his father cause?  
  
Kíli's second thought was that he must be dreaming because this? This was impossible. Azog had been _dead_ , dead and buried long before Thorin's quest had ever started and nothing about the once-king's return should have been able to alter history. A difference in timing, routes or relationships was one thing; this was something else entirely.  
  
 _But then again, I've noticed that this world is not like the one that I remember; I've just been living in denial about the changes that I've seen._ Every little thing that Kíli had chalked up to chance or fuzzy memory – the appearances of his companions, the stone giants, and Rivendell's moon-struck evening – no longer seemed so innocuous. The archer had not forgotten the details of their quest, this world had changed around him and it was no wonder that he had felt so lost since waking up near Hobbiton.  
  
No wonder Kíli hadn't been able to escape the feeling that something was very wrong with his journey and he had no idea how he was supposed to save his family now. _For if those once dead are living and the paths we walked are altered, then the life I lived will give no warning before my kindred die._  
  
Although, some things were not so different and the once-king gripped the branches of his perch tightly as Azog ordered the wargs to attack. His creatures leaped into the trees, jaws snapping at the dwarves' heels and claws tearing deep gouges from the wood. Soon the tree in which Kíli, Fíli and Bilbo had taken shelter began to sway beneath the onslaught, the weight of their attackers tearing its roots free of the ground.  
  
So the once-king grabbed his hobbit and leaped into the next pine, Dori holding out a hand for Fíli when he slipped. But this tree was not safe either now.  
  
One after another, the pines toppled until the entire company was perched on a single tree at the edge of the cliff, the warg pack stalking toward them with hungry growls. This might have been the end of Thorin's company if Gandalf hadn't finally decided to be useful, tossing flaming pine cones to Fíli and the others so that they could drive the creatures back.  
  
Fire was one of the few things wargs truly feared and the smirk dropped off Azog's face when his beasts retreated with their tails between their legs. However, the pale orc's frustration soon turned to triumph once again because the company barely had time to cheer their victory before the final tree began to shake. Within seconds, the pine was dangling over the edge of the cliff, the dwarves hanging on as best they could.  
  
Kíli glanced down and then quickly turned his gaze back to the tree trunk as the long, long drop beneath his feet made his stomach lurch painfully. Even Durin's Folk could not survive a fall like that and yet, down was the only direction left to Thorin's company.  
  
Down or forward into flames and a waiting orc pack and the once-king had to wonder about his uncle's sanity when the dwarf lord chose the second path. Thorin must have lost brains as well as beard in this new reality because even if it looked quite regal, charging the Defiler would never be anything but a truly awful plan.  
  
The archer watched in horror as the pale orc swatted his uncle aside almost casually, Kíli's worst nightmare playing out before his eyes. The once-king could not watch Thorin die again, he _couldn't_ , and yet he was helpless to do anything but struggle against the pull of gravity.  
  
Even as he and Fíli dragged themselves back up onto the pine tree inch by inch, Kíli knew that they would never make it before their uncle was decapitated and he could feel a scream of denial welling up inside of him. However, before the sound could escape the archer's throat, someone ran past him; Bilbo Baggins had found his bravery.  
  
The hobbit rushed forward to tackle the orc that was looming over Thorin, knocking him to the ground before his blade could fall. It was Bilbo's sword that slashed down, butchering the monster with a ferocious snarl that Kíli had not seen since the day his hobbit died.  
  
But courageous as he was, the burglar was still no fighter, and once their enemies recovered from the shock, he was outmatched rapidly. Azog and his wargs were toying with Bilbo and the once-king knew that his death would be neither swift nor clean. However, he and Fíli had finally managed to put solid ground beneath their feet and they did not hesitate before charging forth to aid their friend.  
  
While Kíli didn't exactly have a plan, the Lord of the Eagles had come to their rescue once and the archer could only hope that the eagle might do so again. The once-king and his brother just had to hold off Azog's pack for a few more minutes and when Dwalin joined them, he started to believe that they actually had a chance.  
  
So the dwarf threw himself into the fight with abandon, taking a savage pleasure in every beast that died. These were Azog's creatures and thus Bolg's allies and the more that Kíli managed to slaughter now, the fewer his kin would have to face upon the battlefield. For the once-king knew his enemies and even if the future was suddenly uncertain, he was sure that a war was coming soon enough.  
  
Indeed, some things held true between lifetimes and Kíli looked to the heavens with relief when he heard the rush of giant wings.  
  
The eagles fell upon the remaining wargs as hawks upon a rabbit, striking with wings and talons until half their enemies lay wounded and the others ran off into the night. With far more gentleness, those same talons lifted Thorin and his companions out of danger, Kíli tumbling through the air to land next to his brother on a downy feathered back.  
  
Although the once-king could not relax completely while his uncle lay limp within the Lord of the Eagle's claws, he knew that he could do nothing until the dwarves touched earth again. Besides, Thorin might have been sorely wounded by Azog but he had always been a stubborn bastard and Kíli had to trust that he would not die easily. So the once-king settled himself more comfortably beside his brother and then allowed the stress of the last day to take its toll.  
  
  
 _“You are late, child. Now come; we have much to speak about.”  
  
The dwarrowdam looks like his mother and yet somehow more as well, a soft luminescence dancing beneath her skin. She is both familiar and a stranger just as Kíli does not quite recognize the place in which he stands.  
  
But the dwarf does not resist when she takes his hand and leads him forward into the grandest hall that he has ever seen. Marble columns support a high arched ceiling, every inch of stone carved with fantastic elves, dwarves, and dragons so detailed as to seem alive, and the sheer magnificence of it takes his breath away.  
  
Yet despite the wonders that surround him, Kíli's eyes are drawn inexorably to the far side of the hall where another dwarf sits waiting on a massive golden throne. He too looks familiar; his face an echo of Khagolabbad's oldest tapestries and his eyes glowing like forges from the fires lit within.  
  
“What have you been doing, Kíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin?” this dwarf asks when Kíli walks closer, the echoing rumble of his voice driving the archer to his knees. “We sent you back to change the future and you have only made it worse instead.”  
  
“You sent me back?” Kíli murmurs, staring up at these strange dwarves in confusion. “To save my family?”  
  
“To save the world,” the dwarrowdam corrects him gently. “Your family is not the fulcrum here.”  
  
She is clearly expecting a response but the once-king can only gape as he finally realizes who stands before him and eventually the Smith breaks the silence in his stead. “If you were intending to save your kinsfolk then you have been doing a rather pathetic job of it so far. Thorin Oakenshield almost died tonight and if any member of your company perishes before reaching the Lonely Mountain then our sacrifice will have been made in vain. Stop rushing about as though you were some foolish elfling born of Manwë rather than a son of Durin and use the wisdom that you learned upon the throne of Azsâlul'abad to lead your kindred home.”  
  
“Now, love,” Mahal’s Lady cautions, laying a hand upon her husband's arm. “The lad is trying and we did send him back without any instructions to guide his way. That is why we are speaking to him now. Although...” she frowns at Kíli and he feels as though the sun itself has dimmed, the archer ready to promise anything to remove the disappointment from her eyes. “My husband does have a point. You need to use your knowledge more effectively if you hope to win this time.”  
  
“But... the world has changed,” the once-king protests. “Our journey is not as I remember and Azog, he was **dead**.”  
  
If Kíli was hoping for sympathy, he is disappointed for Kaminzabdûna just shakes her head at him. “Of course the world is different, child. We are powerful but even we could not send you through time without far-reaching consequence. Our actions have caused ripples throughout history, the tapestry of our existence changing threads beneath Vairë's hands. But while the warp and weft have altered, the framework is the same and you will find that your quest is not as different as you fear.”  
  
“But why me?” the dwarf asks softly. “Why choose me and not someone better qualified?”  
  
It is Kíli's old insecurities speaking, the part of his heart that had never wanted to be king. He had done his best but the archer was no born hero, not like Thorin and his brother were.  
  
Yet the Smith and his Lady do not judge him for his weakness; instead their faces soften into something almost comforting. “We chose you because your life was the turning point in our war against the darkness; something that occurred during your journey is the reason that we lost. We do not know exactly where the fulcrum lies, not yet, but we know that you are the only one who can shift the balance toward our side. You must keep your company alive to reach the Lonely Mountain and as soon as Vairë has deciphered the secret to a better future, we will call you back again. Now go, child, and remember that our fate is in your hands.”  
  
The once-king has questions, a thousand questions dancing on the tip of his tongue, but it seems his time is up. For Kaminzabdûna leans forward to place a Runestone in Kíli's palm and then both Valar disappear into light._  
  
  
Kíli woke just as the eagles began to descend toward a tall stone spire, his brother's hand rough upon his arm. He felt stunned, dazed and disoriented by the vividness of his dreaming even as his mind struggled to process that which he had seen.  
  
Yet the archer could not doubt the truth of his vision, not when he opened his fingers to see the Vala’s Runestone lying in his palm. It was the deep green of an emerald or a pine tree and carved into its surface was a short command. _'Innikh dê,'_ it said, _'Return to me.'_  
  
This might seem a strange message to one not born of Durin's Folk, but it made perfect sense to Kíli. It told him that he could still earn his place in the Halls of Mandos now. So even though the fate of the world was not something the once-king had ever wished to carry, he knew that he could not refuse the Vala's charge. Not when Kíli might be able to save everyone, to undo his past failures and be welcomed into the last home of his people after a long and happy life.  
  
Indeed, the dwarf saw truth in Kaminzabdûna's words when he thought on their conversation, his company's current journey having followed the same broad trace as the one he lived before. There had still been trolls and elves and stone giants – no matter how different their appearance – and there should still be men and orcs and dragons further on their way.  
  
Perhaps the fate of Thorin's quest was not as dire as Azog's resurrection had made the once-king fear. Perhaps the company's trials were not random and the archer could use his foreknowledge to protect his kindred until the Valar discovered how to alter history.  
  
Thus Kíli had hope again when he and Fíli stepped onto the stone of Beorn's Carrock, though the sight of his uncle's unmoving body made his heart falter in his chest. But Mahal had said “almost” in the once-king's vision and the Smith would not have lied to his child about this.  
  
Indeed, Gandalf took only a few moments to work his magic once he reached Thorin's side, the wizard's murmured spell bringing the dwarf lord back to consciousness again. He opened his eyes with a groan, Kíli and Dwalin stepping forward to help their leader to his feet as the rest of the dwarves gathered round. Thorin still seemed weak despite Gandalf’s healing and the once-king could see his own worry mirrored on his companions’ faces, Fíli reaching out to grab his brother’s hand. But their uncle recovered quickly, every passing moment putting more color on his cheeks.  
  
Doubtlessly, Thorin would have naught but bruises and injured pride to recall last evening’s foolishness, dwarven sturdiness winning through where sense had failed. Although, Óin was not one to assume anything about his charges safety, the healer moving to the dwarf lord’s side to examine him properly. However, before Óin could begin, Thorin turned away from his kindred to round on their burglar instead.  
  
“You! What were you doing?! You nearly got yourself killed!” the dwarf lord shouted as he stalked toward Bilbo, the words making Kíli bristle indignantly on his hobbit's behalf.  
  
It was inconceivable that Thorin could still hate their burglar after Bilbo had saved him and only Fíli's grip on his shoulder kept the archer from stepping in this time. But it seemed that his brother was right to stop him because Thorin ended his rant with the most heartfelt apology that Kíli had ever heard his uncle speak.  
  
Indeed the dwarf lord hugged Bilbo close and proclaimed all his doubts misguided even as a shard of ice settled in the once-king's heart. Not from Thorin's action since his uncle was only doing what was honorable but from the expression that the archer saw in Bilbo's eyes. Kíli recognized that look; he had seen it in his mirror for decades. That was the look of someone who wanted what they knew they'd never have.  
  
Only Bilbo was aiming this gaze at Thorin and that wasn't right at all. The hobbit was Kíli's; he was _supposed_ to be Kíli's and the dwarf did not know what he would do if he lost his burglar now.  
  
Because his love for Bilbo had supported the once-king as much as his love for his family and he wasn't supposed to be alone this time around. Sure Kíli hadn’t exactly swept the hobbit off his feet so far, but he had still hoped to win the burglar's heart in the future even if he was forced to wait until his larger task was done.  
  
The archer had still hoped to find the happiness he'd dreamed of and yet... this wasn't really _his_ Bilbo, was it? His Bilbo had been dead and buried for a lifetime and even if the hobbit had once cared about him, he clearly did not love Kíli now.  
  
So maybe there truly were no second chances where the heart was concerned. Perhaps their burglar had been changed too much by Vairë's reweaving to see the once-king as a lover and why should Kíli have expected otherwise when he had never made his true intentions known? After all, Thorin might have been needlessly cruel to Bilbo but he was also handsome, loyal, and far more experienced in such matters than his sister-son.  
  
Thus Kíli should not be surprised that the company’s hobbit had fallen for his uncle and if the dwarf had lost Bilbo for good, he had only his own cowardice to blame.  
  
However, it still hurt deeply to see his burglar yearning for another and if the once-king's companions had not been distracted by the sight of the Lonely Mountain, they might have questioned the strained grin upon his face. For Kíli could not smile when his heart was shattering within him and he turned his gaze toward the trees in the distance to keep Fíli from noticing his pain.  
  
The archer did not want to ruin this moment for his brother nor answer the questions that the other dwarf was sure to ask. Though he also could not stop himself from scoffing quietly when Óin spied a thrush flying eastward and Thorin took it as a good omen for the journey still to come. Because the worst was only just beginning and Kíli's uncle – all of Kíli's kindred – had no idea of the dangers that lay in store for them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those fics that I will probably keep fiddling with forever, so if you notice minor changes showing up in old chapters, that would be why.


	5. Preface - Part I

The climb down the Carrock was miserable, icy winds and rain clouds moving in as the morning passed. Yet while his companions looked to the sky with trepidation, Kíli found it rather fitting that the weather should match the gale storm in his spirit and he didn’t even bother to pull his cloak up when the rain began to fall.  
  
In truth, the deluge felt almost cleansing, the water washing away some of the once-king’s bitterness even as it gave him something else to focus on. Because the steps of the Carrock had not been carved for dwarven statures and the company’s descent became ever more treacherous as the stone grew slick beneath their feet. Soon the stairs turned into a wild cascade of water that threatened to sweep them over the side with every step and despite his sorrow, Kíli found himself keeping a careful eye on Bilbo until the company reached safer ground.  
  
He still loved their burglar even if the reverse could not be said and it would take far more than heartbreak to make Kíli wish him harm. If the once-king was going to wish harm on anyone, it would be his uncle since Thorin clearly had no idea what he had stolen from his sister-son or how much their hobbit cared.  
  
Indeed, there was no more than friendship in the dwarf lord’s gaze when the company began climbing the next ridge and while the lack of scorn was a definite improvement, the longing in Bilbo’s eyes hurt Kíli as deeply as his grief. If the burglar had to fall for someone else, it should have been someone who made him happy and it was not fair that Thorin should squander the gift that he was given when his sister-son would have given anything for a fraction of that love.  
  
However, if life were fair then the once-king would not be on his way to reclaim Erebor for a second time. He would have married Bilbo and lived a life of love, laughter, and adventure while his uncle became King Under the Mountain and his brother stood ready for the day that Thorin passed.  
  
Truly, there was nothing but grief in wishing things were different and if Kíli could stop the world from falling into darkness, he knew that his own heart would be a small price to pay.  
  
So until Mahal told him what he must do to save the future, the once-king would focus on reaching the Lonely Mountain with his company intact. The dwarf had had a great deal of practice at crushing down his sorrow beneath the weight of duty and he was determined not to fail the Valar’s task as he had failed his kin before.  
  
Kíli would need to keep his wits about him now that reclaiming Erebor was no longer guaranteed and indeed, the differences that the archer had tried so hard not to notice were visible all around him now. Because the trek to Beorn's house had not been this struggle through rocky crags and muddy canyons, Azog’s pack catching up to the company much sooner than they’d hoped. Every time Thorin sent Bilbo to scout, the pale orc had gotten closer until the once-king began to fear that they might not reach the safety of Beorn's hall in time.  
  
The skin-changer was one of the few things that might ward off Azog and yet, when his bear form appeared in the distance two days out from the Misty Mountains, Kíli learned that orcs were not the only danger that lived within these crags. For the wizard did not describe Beorn as the gruff but kind man whom Kíli had remembered fondly in the past.  
  
“He will help us, or he will kill us,” Gandalf said plainly, his expression making it clear which outcome he thought more likely of the two. But the dwarves had no choice with Azog on their trail.  
  
So the once-king raised no objections, not even when Beorn caught their scent and began to pursue them relentlessly. The skin-changer hunted Thorin’s company over hills and under trees and down onto the plain, his bear form seemingly even larger than it had been before.  
  
But perhaps that was simply a matter of perspective – the difference between an ally and an enemy – and the archer truly believed that Beorn would kill anyone he caught. The skin-changer would rip the dwarves to shreds and while he might regret it when next he shifted, regrets brought no one back to life.  
  
Thus, it was true terror giving speed to the once-king and his companions as they sprinted toward Beorn’s house, the giant bear close on their heels. They ran across the meadow and into the skin-changer’s garden before slamming into his door en masse. Those dwarves in front pounded on the wood in blind panic until Thorin managed to push his way through the chaos to unbar the door and their company tumbled into the hall.  
  
Even then their trials were not over for Beorn was not one to give up easily. He nearly forced the door open before the dwarves managed to slam it shut against him, the skin-changer’s jaws far too near his body for Kíli's peace of mind.  
  
His unease was shared by the rest of his companions, several of the others glancing at the hall’s windows nervously, and when Gandalf revealed that the bear was Beorn, Dori looked ready to pass out. Indeed, the wizard seemed to be making a habit of inviting Thorin’s company into other people’s houses and while the dwarves hadn’t been too concerned about irritating Bilbo, the skin-changer was far more dangerous than their burglar. However, it was a little late to worry about their welcome when they were here already and the once-king knew well that his companions would find no other shelter in these parts.  
  
 _We’ll deal with it in the morning,_ Kíli thought, putting his concerns to the back of his mind for now. _Everything will seem clearer after a full night’s rest and hopefully Gandalf’s quick tongue will be enough to soothe Beorn’s ire toward his uninvited guests._  
  
Thorin’s company needed the aid that Beorn could grant them after losing most of their supplies to the goblins and while the wizard had yet to announce his departure in this lifetime, he could not conjure ponies from thin air. Without mounts to carry the company to the edge of Mirkwood, Azog would be sure to catch them, and even if the orc were not dogging Thorin’s footsteps, speed was of the essence now.  
  
At least, it should have been. However, when Kíli went over Kaminzabdûna's words again, the dwarf realized that he could not be so certain of his journey’s timetable anymore. Because if sending the once-king back to the past had altered life and death itself, why should it not have altered time as well?  
  
So the archer nudged his brother’s shoulder once the company had settled down for the evening, the dwarves, wizard, and hobbit making themselves comfortable in the piles of hay that filled one corner of the hall.  
  
“Fíli, what day is it? How much time remains before Durin’s Day arrives?”  
  
“Did you forget how to read the seasons, little brother?” the other dwarf replied with a teasing smile. “But if you must know, we are still in the first days of _'Aftharn_ so we have some weeks yet before we must find our great-grandfather's secret door.”  
  
While part of Kíli was pleased to know that Fíli still had the heart to tease him after their recent struggles, the once-king was too shocked by his brother’s words to respond. _'Aftharn? How could it be 'Aftharn? There should not have been a Moon of Dare this year. But that would explain why the weather has been so much worse than I remembered since Durin’s Day falls much later when our thirteenth month exists. I’ve been expecting summer when we are already in autumn and the Valar must truly have rocked the foundations of Middle Earth by sending me back here. Yet this means time is even shorter than I thought because our company will never reach Erebor before the start of 'Afdehar if we are trapped in Thranduil's dungeons for weeks on end again._  
  
“Kí? You do know what month it is, don’t you? We celebrated Summerfest just before leaving the Blue Mountains; had you forgotten that?” His brother’s worried question brought the archer from his thoughts, Fíli reaching out to check the once-king for injuries. “Did you take a blow to the head when we were in the Misty Mountains? Or later on when Beorn was chasing us? I told you not to hide your wounds from me.”  
  
Fíli seemed ready to wake Óin from his slumber this very instant in order to examine Kíli and the once-king could not have that. For if the healer began asking him questions about their current timeline, the archer would never be able to maintain the illusion that he was his younger self. His companions would think him either mad or concussed, neither of which would help him complete his Valar-given task. So Kíli needed to reassure his brother fast.  
  
“Of course, I remember that, Fí,” the archer said, rolling his eyes as he shoved off his brother’s hand. Submitting to Fíli's protectiveness would be far more suspicious than protesting – he was the younger sibling after all. “I just lost track of the days while we were in the Misty Mountains and I wanted to make sure I'd reckoned right. I promise I did not receive anything worse than scrapes and bruises despite the dangers on our trail.”  
  
“All right, if you're sure,” Fíli relented grudgingly. “I suppose you would have shown the signs before if you were truly wounded and speaking of danger, I think I owe you an apology. I should not have been so obstinate in dismissing your concerns about our journey; none of us were prepared for Azog, least of all our uncle, and I should have listened to your fears.”  
  
The once-king was struck speechless for a moment since this was a concession he had not been expecting after their previous argument. Yet his brother was not one to say anything he did not mean and eventually Kíli managed to stutter out, “I - Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.”  
  
He knew that Thorin still held Fíli's loyalty but at least the other dwarf had finally realized that their uncle wasn’t indestructible. At least his brother was no longer following Thorin blindly to destruction and Fíli's apology prompted the once-king to make one of his own. “I am sorry too, brother. You were right to trust in our wizard and our burglar and while I don't think I can stop myself from worrying, together we might be able to keep our uncle’s reckless streak in check.”  
  
“We'll do our best, Kí,” Fíli promised, pulling the once-king forward with one hand. He knocked their heads together gently as he had done when they were children before letting his brother go again. “Now come on, we should try to get some sleep before the dawn.”  
  
Fíli had the right of it since this would be the company's last true respite before Laketown and Kíli feared that he might spill his secret if he spoke any more tonight. So the archer murmured his agreement, curling up in the hay with his back against his brother’s and allowing the slow rhythm of Fíli's breathing to lull him into dreams.  
  
\---  
  
The sun was nearing mid-morning when the once-king finally opened his eyes, wisps of memory chasing him from sleep. Kíli would have called them nightmares except that he had lived them and the dwarf reached out a hand behind him to check that Fíli was still there.  
  
However, his fingers met nothing but cloth and hay where living flesh should be, the once-king shooting upright with a panicked gasp. He had been dreaming of the battle which gave him kingship, visions of his brother's blood-stained face burning behind his eyes, and Kíli couldn’t relax until he spied Fíli pulling his boots on a few feet away.  
  
“Kí? Are you okay?” his brother asked as the archer slumped back against the hay, rubbing one hand across his face wearily.  
  
“I'm fine, Fíli. Still just half asleep I think,” Kíli said once he'd managed to get himself back together, the bright sun shining through Beorn's high windows helping to chase the ghosts away. This was still a place of peace and safety for orcs would never be allowed within a furlong of these walls.  
  
So the once-king put his nightmares from his mind as best he could before looking around for his companions, the other dwarves scattered in small groups around the hall. Thorin was deep in discussion with Gandalf while Dwalin and Glóin were busy sharpening their weapons and everyone else seemed to be waiting until their leader and their wizard decided what to do.  
  
Everyone but Bilbo since the hobbit was still sleeping, the once-king forced to avert his gaze when his heart throbbed painfully. Because Bilbo was curled up in his cloak with a soft smile on his face and that was the expression Kíli wanted to see on waking for the remainder of his life.  
  
The dwarf had dreamed of lazy mornings filled with sunshine and kisses but those dreams could only cause him sorrow now. For everyone knew that love could not be changed once it was given and the hobbit truly loved his uncle, there was no doubt of that. The archer had seen this truth in Bilbo's eyes during the last few days of their journey; he had seen their burglar's heart and it was fixed on Thorin, whether his uncle deserved the gift or not.  
  
 _And perhaps someday I shall manage to forget him,_ Kíli thought, although the dwarf did not hold out much hope for that. If one lifetime had not served to dull his heartache then another would probably only make his yearning sharper and the once-king was grateful for the distraction when Thorin called his dwarves to gather round.  
  
The need to reintroduce their company to Beorn gave Kíli something other than the state of his star-crossed romance to focus on – chiefly the fear that his uncle would offend the skin-changer on accident. This incarnation of Thorin did not appear to be a particularly tactful person and he was bound to start an argument if Beorn objected to the sudden influx of dwarves into his home. An argument that could end very badly since the skin-changer was currently chopping firewood in his garden, the axe in his hands large enough to split Dwalin right in two.  
  
Thankfully, the company’s wizard recognized the need for caution, asking the dwarves to come out in twos and threes so as not to overwhelm their host. This tactic proved successful for while Beorn’s eyes widened with each new arrival, he seemed more nonplussed than annoyed. Indeed, when thirteen dwarves finally stood before him, the skin-changer greeted them with only a hint of gruffness and Kíli could find no fault in his hospitality.  
  
For Beorn lay aside his axe and ill-temper to offer Thorin’s company a feast, his table laden with delicacies such as his visitors had not seen in weeks. Not only honey cakes and salted cheese, but fresh milk and bread and late-season fruits plucked from the trees outside.  
  
The company sat down eagerly with such a fine spread before them, their friendly bickering finally waking Bilbo – or perhaps that was just a hobbit’s sense of when good food was near. Either way Bilbo was quick to sit when Balin made space at the table, reaching for a handful of honey cakes with a happy sigh.  
  
In truth, Thorin was the only one who did not seem impressed by Beorn’s breakfast, the dwarf lord leaning against a wooden pillar behind Fíli while his companions chattered on. The once-king’s uncle had apparently decided that he could survive on brooding and sheer majesticness for Kíli did not see him eat more than a handful of fruit – his time spent smoking and glowering at their host instead. Honestly, the archer was beginning to wonder how his uncle had survived this long without dying in some dramatic showdown and he was quickly losing what little patience he had left for Thorin’s stubbornness.  
  
 _I can’t believe I lost Bilbo to someone who doesn’t even have the sense to eat breakfast when it’s offered, let alone the sense to wait for backup before charging giant wargs,_ the once-king thought to himself, his already foul mood growing worse.  
  
Winning their burglar’s love might not be an option for Kíli any longer, but resigning himself to loneliness would be easier if Thorin stopped acting like such an idiot. However, before the archer could decide whether to call out his uncle – or at least offer him a bread roll – Beorn spoke up first.  
  
“So you are the one they call Thorin Oakenshield. Tell me, why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?” the skin-changer asked, pinning the dwarf lord with an amber stare. Although Beorn spoke slowly, his words were deliberate and the once-king knew that underestimating his intelligence would be a grave mistake.  
  
“You know of Azog? How?”  
  
“My people were the first to live in these mountains before the orcs came down from the north. The Defiler killed most of my family,” the skin-changer explained, his voice echoing with an endless sorrow that spoke to Kíli's heart. The archer knew such pain as well as Beorn did and when he saw the remains of shackles around the other’s wrists, his meal turned to ashes in his mouth.  
  
“Some he enslaved,” Beorn continued, seemingly unaffected by the horror in his guests' eyes. “Not for work, you understand, but for sport. Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.”  
  
“There were others like you?” Bilbo asked and if the once-king had ever thought their burglar tactful, he did not think it now. Indeed, Kíli was sorely tempted to slap a hand across the hobbit’s mouth and beg forgiveness for the question, but Bilbo was too far away to reach.  
  
“Once there were many.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Now there is only one,” Beorn answered, a wealth of grief behind the words. Even Bilbo finally noticed that he was poking at a wound still bleeding, the hobbit falling into a mortified silence at his own discourtesy. However, the skin-changer chose not to claim the offense that was his due, turning away from the company's burglar instead.  
  
“You need to reach the mountain before the last days of autumn?” he asked Gandalf, his expression firmly moving the subject away from his past grief.  
  
Yet Kíli could not forget that sorrow even as Beorn and the wizard began to discuss the best path through Mirkwood, not when he knew the other’s pain was his fault. Azog would not have been alive to torture Beorn’s family if the Valar had not sent the once-king back through time to save their future and such magic would not have been necessary if he had not failed Durin’s Folk.  
  
There was so much that his return had broken, this world far darker than the one that bore him, and the dwarf did not know how he was supposed to turn such darkness into light. Yet this was the task he had been given and the once-king knew that he was fighting for more than his own people now. Kíli was fighting for Beorn and anyone else whose life had been twisted by the Valar’s magic because he could not let their happiness be sacrificed in vain.  
  
 _Whatever it takes,_ the archer reaffirmed. _I will see our future safe._  
  
With this promise in mind, Kíli turned back to Beorn, the once-king needing to learn as much as he could about the new dangers that lay before them now. And it was good he did for the skin-changer spoke a name that the archer did not recognize, warning Gandalf of an alliance between the orcs of Moria and a Necromancer in Dol Guldur. The dwarf had not known of this Necromancer in the past that was his present and if their enemies had gained further allies, it would be ill news indeed.  
  
Although, if he were being honest, the once-king had never learned the names of any foe beyond Bolg and Smaug the Terrible so perhaps the evil that Beorn spoke of was nothing new to Middle Earth. Beorn's description of Mirkwood was certainly much like Kíli remembered, that forest dark and foul and teeming with creatures from a dwarrowling's nightmares.  
  
In truth, the dwarves' host did not seem to think much of their chances, Gandalf's plan to follow the Elven Road receiving nothing but a scoffed: “Safe? The wood elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They’re less wise and more dangerous. But it matters not.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, his frown deepening.  
  
“These lands are crawling with orcs. Their numbers are growing and you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive,” Beorn told the dwarf lord, pronouncing the company's death sentence in the same deliberate tone that he had spoken everything. He might as well have been describing the weather and Kíli honestly could not say whether the skin-changer would choose to help them now. The once-king could only hope that some piece of the old Beorn still lived within the bitter soul who stood before them, that some shred of kindness would stop their host from watching as they marched unaided to their doom.  
  
“I don’t like dwarves. They’re greedy and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own,” the skin-changer continued, staring down at his guests in distaste. “But orcs I hate more. What do you need?”  
  
At this the dwarves burst into action, the remains of their breakfast quickly cleaned off the table so that Beorn could lay out his supplies. He offered them food and waterskins to replace those they'd lost to the goblins as well as mounts to outpace Azog's beasts. Ponies for the dwarves and Bilbo, a horse for Gandalf, and the tack to see them properly astride.  
  
With everyone working together, Thorin's company was ready to leave within the hour, their weapons sharp and their packs full once more. So they mounted their ponies and turned them eastward, Beorn standing by his door to see them off. “Go now while you have the light. Your hunters are not far behind.”  
  
The skin-changer had promised to shadow the company's path until they reached Mirkwood – probably as much to ensure proper treatment of his ponies as from any true concern for their safety – and Beorn's presence should help to keep their enemies at bay.  
  
Indeed, Kíli saw no sign of Azog or his wargs during that first day of travel, the miles eaten up rapidly beneath their ponies' hooves. The skin-changer's animals were tireless, able to trot for hours at the same steady pace, and their gait was smooth enough that the group ate astride rather than stopping for their meals.  
  
At this rate, Thorin’s company should reach Mirkwood the following afternoon and if the once-king was quieter than usual during this part of their journey, he was hardly the only one who had been shaken by Azog's sudden reappearance in the world. Even Fíli had stopped questioning the younger dwarf's silences, their conversation within Beorn's hall the night before justifying Kíli's distraction in his older brother's mind.  
  
A small mercy given the task that lay before him but at least the archer no longer needed to slap a stupid smile on his face whenever one of the others looked his way. Instead Kíli sat on his pony pensively, turning Kaminzabdûna's gift over in his hands as he thought on the road ahead.  
  
Because the once-king did not doubt his brother's reckoning of the seasons and with the start of 'Aftharn several morns behind them, the company did not have a month to waste in Mirkwood anymore. They did not even have weeks and yet Kíli could see no sure way to keep their path from Thranduil's hall. Perhaps Gandalf's presence would allow them to pass through the forest unmolested since the wizard showed no signs of leaving, but the once-king did not want to trust their safety to the wizard's silver tongue and while remaining in Thranduil's keeping might be safer, the Valar's words had implied that Erebor must be reclaimed now or not at all.  
  
Thus, the dwarves would either have to avoid being captured or escape the elf king's dungeons far more quickly and Kíli had no guarantee of that. He would do his best but Mirkwood had been treacherous in his last lifetime and there was no telling what new dangers might exist within its dank reaches now.  
  
Although, when the company crested one last rise and the forest became visible on the horizon, it looked much like the once-king remembered: a seemingly endless expanse of twisted trees and branches that made him shift uncomfortably. Kíli had never quite recovered from the trek through that foul expanse, his nerves singing with alarm whenever he had been forced to treat with Thranduil in the elf king's halls.  
  
Yet the archer was not the only one who was unsettled by the sight of Mirkwood, the other dwarves grumbling amongst themselves even as Bilbo looked up at those gnarled trunks with apprehension in his eyes.  
  
“This forest feels sick. As if a disease lies upon it. Is there no way around?” the hobbit asked, his people's affinity for green and growing things allowing him to sense what most other folk could not. Yet there truly was no other path if Thorin's company was to reach the Lonely Mountain before Durin's Day arrived.  
  
Indeed, Gandalf told Bilbo exactly that, patting the hobbit on the shoulder and then walking beneath the archway of branches that marked the Elven Road. While their wizard scouted the way forward, the dwarves began unloading their supplies from Beorn's ponies, each turning west toward home as its burden was removed. The skin-changer would not allow any harm to find them and Mirkwood was no place for horses of any kind.  
  
However, the company had barely finished with their ponies when Gandalf ran out of the forest as though Durin’s Bane itself were on his heels.  
  
“Not my horse; I need it!” the wizard shouted, his expression more unsettled than Kíli had ever seen before, and the once-king knew then that his companion’s path had not been altered as greatly as he’d hoped. This new timeline might have delayed Gandalf's departure but it seemed that some things truly were set in stone and fate had caught up to Thorin's Company.  
  
No matter how the dwarves protested this sudden abandonment – and by Mahal’s beard they did not take it lightly – the wizard refused to change his mind. Even their hobbit could not make Gandalf rethink his course of action despite the wizard's fondness for him and Bilbo looked almost gutted when Gandalf walked away.  
  
His expression sparked a twinge of jealousy inside the once-king’s heart since the hobbit had never looked at _him_ with that much feeling and he was getting rather tired of being second best in Bilbo's eyes. Gandalf should not be higher in their burglar's esteem than Kíli, he just shouldn't, and so perhaps it was for the best that the wizard was leaving now.  
  
Indeed, the hobbit had only come into his own once Gandalf was no longer there to perform last minute rescues and he would need that newfound confidence to face the trials that lay ahead. If the wizard’s departure also meant that Kíli might become a shoulder to Bilbo in his stead, there was nothing wrong with offering support to a friend. The once-king could live with friendship; he had to, after all.  
  
So Kíli kept his silence when he might have tried to persuade Gandalf not to leave them with a few hints of the future whispered in his ear. The dwarf would not reveal his secret; not to the wizard who had abandoned Thorin’s company in every lifetime and left nothing but false promises behind.  
  
Because he would not be waiting for his companions on the slopes of Erebor; he had not met them in the last timeline and Kíli had no reason to believe that this would change. The wizard’s path led north and while the once-king did not know what Gandalf would find there, he was sure that their journeys would not meet again until an army stood at the Lonely Mountain's door.  
  
The wizard would be late – too late to save those he claimed to champion if Kíli failed his task – and yet there was wisdom in his words nonetheless. There was wisdom when he warned the dwarves to be careful in Mirkwood, to guard their minds against illusions and hold tight to the path.  
  
The Elven Road would be their lifeline beneath that dark canopy and the company could not afford to lose it, not this time. For even if the dwarves had had months to spare in travel, there were far worse things than wood elves living in those trees and Kíli knew that they had been extremely lucky to reach Laketown once before. He had been lucky to escape this forest with no more than nightmares as his burden and a saner dwarf would have already turned to flee.  
  
Only for his family and the Valar would Kíli step into that darkness one more time and his uncle would never know what it cost his sister-son to walk forward steadily. None of Thorin's company would ever know because the once-king would not tell them; his courage held fast by duty though he was quaking deep inside.  
  
The dwarf followed his uncle into Mirkwood because he must and when the last ray of unbroken sunlight disappeared behind them, Kíli made one heartfelt prayer. _Please, Mahal. Please guide us out again._  
  



	6. Preface - Part II

Mirkwood did not look kindly on trespassers into its domain.  
  
From the moment that Thorin and his companions stepped into the forest, the surrounding vegetation seemed to shake with malice, thick roots threatening to trip the dwarves while brambles snagged their cloaks. Every step made the chill on the air grow sharper and the Elven Road seemed slim protection when enormous trees grew in gnarled clusters up to the very edge of it.  
  
These trees blocked out the sun so that Thorin's company walked in a never-ending twilight, fallen leaves crunching loudly underneath their boots. The deadfall upon the path grew thicker with every league they traveled until the dwarves and their hobbit rounded a copse of brambles and found their trail obscured. But even if the Elven Road was hidden, the earth always spoke true to Mahal's children, and when Dwalin tapped the shaft of his war hammer against the blanket of leaves before him, the metal rang out clear where there was stone beneath.  
  
The warrior took point then, guiding his companions eastward along the safest road. However, while this method would protect them for the moment, Kíli knew that this forest would never allow the dwarves to escape so easily. Not when the once-king's every breath was thick with malice and he could feel Mirkwood’s hatred as a foul caress upon his skin.  
  
 _This forest will kill us all without a second’s hesitation,_ the archer thought, a chill running down his spine when the shadows moved. While most dwarves would not see the threat in leaves and branches, Kíli had spent enough time in Thranduil’s kingdom to know that the trees of Mirkwood had their own awareness and even the elf king's kindred must step warily beneath this canopy.  
  
So Kíli stayed on high alert as he and his companions journeyed onward, his nerves wound tight even though the dwarves encountered neither sight nor sound of any other living thing. His enemies were out there whether or not he could see them and the archer would be ready when the ambush finally came.  
  
He would have to be ready because Thorin’s company would not hear their enemies approaching, the heavy atmosphere of this forest dampening all sound oppressively. Indeed, Mirkwood’s silence was not peaceful, it was the breathless anticipation that came before a battle, and the once-king was not the only one who did not trust this place. Kíli's kindred might not share his memories, but every one of his companions had heard Beorn's warnings clearly and those who remembered Erebor had little reason to trust in Thranduil's hospitality. The older dwarves were as wary of wood elves as they were of other dangers and their suspicion would soon prove justified if the once-king could not keep them on the path.  
  
Even Bilbo had lost his sense of wonder at the thought of meeting Manwë's children, the joy that he had shown on entering Rivendell nowhere to be seen. Although, in truth, this was hardly surprising when the dank miasma of Mirkwood affected the hobbit more strongly with each mile that they traveled, his face growing ever paler while Kíli watched him worriedly.  
  
The once-king did not remember their burglar looking so unwell during his first journey, but perhaps he simply had not noticed then. For the dwarf’s heart had still been wavering – he had worried for Bilbo no more than he had worried for the rest of his kindred – and his younger self had trusted in Thorin to save his company.  
  
Kíli knew better now.  
  
So the archer kept a careful watch over his companions, nudging Ori and Dori back toward the path when their steps began to wander and drawing Fíli into conversation when his spirits dimmed. He helped Balin keep track of their supplies, relieved Dwalin at the front of the line when the warrior’s arm grew tired and fought off the effects of Mirkwood as best he could.  
  
This latter task was the most difficult by far, though Kíli's past experience helped him recognize the forest’s illusions more clearly than his kin. The once-king knew that the voices on the wind were no more than trickery and the lights in the distance only phantoms trying to lure him from the path. He would not listen to the whispers in the shadows – ghosts could not harm Thorin’s company when his dead now lived and breathed.  
  
Yet the once-king also knew that there were real dangers hidden all around them; there were monsters lurking in the darkness and evils on their trail. For Mirkwood could be patient and as soon as the dwarves dropped their guard, the forest would destroy them utterly.  
  
This truth kept Kíli from resting easy whenever his companions stopped for the evening, the archer jumping at every shadow instead of sleeping as he should.  
  
Kíli couldn’t seem to help it even though he knew that such constant vigilance could not be maintained and indeed, it wasn’t long before exhaustion started to weigh on him heavily. His steps grew a little slower and his thoughts a little fuzzier and eventually he began to forget why it was so important to follow the path beneath his feet.  
  
After all, there were some lovely flowers in the distance, ones that he should pick for Bilbo, and the grass in that far clearing looked like such a comfortable place to sleep. Every time the dwarf wished that he could rest his aching head for a moment he would suddenly find himself halfway off the path, his feet moving closer and closer to the edge before he regained his senses once again. It was an ongoing battle, a struggle that filled Kíli's every waking moment, and with each new sleepless dawn, Mirkwood’s enticements became harder to resist.  
  
The once-king felt as though he were walking through an endless dream, a nightmare from which he could not wake. From which Kíli feared that he would never wake again. For the forest was insidious in its torments, cruel and seductive even though the archer knew that its promises were lies.  
  
By now every member of Thorin’s company was beginning to look ragged around the edges, the dwarves clinging to the Elven Road through force of will alone. For this path might be slim protection against Mirkwood’s many evils but it was the only shelter that they had. As long as the stones rang clear beneath Dwalin’s war hammer, the dwarves knew that they were traveling in the right direction, every hour bringing them closer to the forest’s eastern edge. This was the only thing that kept the archer moving; this and the Runestone clutched tightly in his hand.  
  
But the blessing of the Valar meant little when the dwarves stood in the heart of Mirkwood’s power and despite Kíli's best efforts, he could not win this fight. His defiance meant as little as a single spark within a fire – it burned brightly and burned out just as fast.  
  
So it was that Thorin’s company broke camp one morning, the gloom of this day no different than any that had passed. Yet today _was_ different because the once-king had barely walked an hour when the forest suddenly twisted in his vision, the Elven Road disappearing between one step and the next. The path was gone as though it had never existed and another hour's searching could not find that thread again.  
  
The dwarves were well and truly lost now, their shouts of distress mirroring the gloom in Kíli's heart. For with the loss of the path, Thorin’s company had lost its best chance of reaching Erebor before Durin’s Day was upon them and the once-king no longer hoped for miracles.  
  
Fate was harsh and life was cruel and only a fool thought otherwise. Only a fool would have believed that he could change things even with the Valar on his side. It’s not as though Kíli's return had made this world better – indeed, the dwarf would call Azog’s resurrection much, much worse.  
  
Mahal and his Lady should have chosen someone different, someone who could have been the hero that Durin’s Folk deserved. They should have chosen someone who had a chance instead of resting the fate of Middle Earth on the once-king’s shoulders and expecting him to stand beneath that weight. It was _their_ fault that Kíli was failing in his purpose; their fault for putting him through this torment when they should have let him die.  
  
The Valar should have let the once-king go on to see his family instead of forcing him to relive his greatest sorrow and his fury at their audacity was suddenly a burning knot within his chest. Kíli was angry at the Valar for their betrayal, angry at Thorin and his unfaithful hobbit for his heartbreak, and angry at the brothers Ri for walking much too close to him.  
  
So the archer turned around and shoved Nori and his brothers shoved back and soon the entire company ground to a milling halt. Dwalin and Balin began arguing about directions while Bofur and his kindred moved to support Nori; Óin stared vaguely into the distance and Fíli stepped up to guard his brother’s side. The elder prince looked ready to punch Ori out this instant and Kíli could hardly blame his brother for his anger when he grew more livid with each second that passed by.  
  
“I am trying to keep you fools alive,” the once-king growled, pushing Nori back another step only to receive a hard shove from Dori in return. “Where you would follow Thorin blindly toward destruction, I have seen that future; it leads to death, darkness, and the end of everything.”  
  
Kíli was too angry to care that he was speaking of his secret; he just wanted his companions to know the pain their quest would cause. The dwarf wanted them to know what he had sacrificed before he carved his retribution from their ungrateful hides.  
  
But the only thing that his companions heard was his attack on Thorin, his kindred jumping in to defend their leader’s madness as though it were justified. They shouted about loyalty and kingship as though Kíli did not understand the weight of duty – as though he had not lived it after they were gone. Thorin was the one who needed a lesson in responsibility, Thorin and his reckless plans who should be brought to task, and the once-king was prepared to do just that.  
  
Only his uncle was too far away for Kíli to punch him, the dwarf lord standing apart from the crowd with a sneer upon his face. He was watching his companions argue like he was too good for fistfights and as soon as Dori got out of his way, the archer was going to show that hobbit-stealing bastard the true meaning of agony.  
  
However, before the once-king could bring his blood-soaked thoughts to life, Thorin decided that he’d stood by long enough.  
  
“ **Enough!** ” the dwarf lord shouted. “Quiet, all of you! We're being watched!”  
  
Eleven of Thorin’s companions froze at his command, their argument forgotten instantly. Only eleven because the voice of kingship no longer worked on Kíli and hobbits were not the sort to bow to anyone. A polite bob or curtsy maybe, but never the unthinking obedience that was natural when raised with royalty. Indeed, Bilbo did not even acknowledge the dwarf lord’s order for his attention was focused on the canopy above. The hobbit was muttering something about sunlight and while Thorin had failed to pull the once-king from his anger, their burglar succeeded when he began to climb.  
  
 _That isn’t safe,_ the archer thought in panic, visions of Bilbo falling overwhelming the fury in his mind. Because nothing was more important than his hobbit, not even vengeance for the life that he had lost.  
  
Kíli would punish Thorin once Bilbo was out of danger, but the burglar disappeared into the trees before the dwarf could pull him back to earth where he belonged. Every dwarrow knew that earth and stone meant protection and in such a place as Mirkwood, no member of their company should be traveling out of sight. However, while the once-king meant to follow Bilbo, he did not have the chance. For as soon as Kíli could no longer see his hobbit, a red haze washed across his vision, fury overcoming him once more.  
  
He had been worried about something but now there was only anger, and he could see his rage reflected on the faces of his kin. Indeed, the archer was not the only one who was finding his emotions difficult to master and the silence that Thorin had commanded was already giving way to muttering.  
  
Soon the dwarves would be back to brawling with each other and the once-king did not know if anything could stop the blood that would be spilled. In truth, Kíli did not wish to stop it anymore.  
  
Why should the once-king run himself ragged trying to save his kinfolk when they ignored his efforts, marching toward their own destruction with blind confidence? Let them die again and this time their deaths would free him for Kíli had no intention of becoming king once more. He could not become king as long as Smaug ruled the Lonely Mountain and slaying Thorin now would ensure this never changed. One small death and this company would scatter; one small death and Kíli's debt would be paid.  
  
So the archer gripped his dagger tightly and stalked toward his uncle, the dwarf lord blind to the danger that he faced. But Kíli had scarcely raised his weapon before Bilbo shouted something far above him, the hobbit’s voice muffled by the thick forest canopy.  
  
While the once-king could not make out the words, the burglar sounded worried – almost frightened – and this made the archer pause. He was still angry, so very angry, but now he was torn as well. The once-king’s instincts said that he must find his hobbit even as his hate said he must strike and when Bilbo shouted again, he knew which one was right. Because Kíli had failed to save his Bilbo on that blood-soaked battlefield and even if this Bilbo did not want him, the archer would not stand by as he died. If there was danger then he would face it at his hobbit’s side.  
  
Only the hobbit was not the one in danger, something that Kíli should have remembered from his last journey through this place. Bilbo’s shout had been a warning not a cry for assistance and the once-king had barely opened his mouth to answer when Thorin’s company was ambushed from above.  
  
Enormous spiders scuttled down the tree trunks to leap upon his kindred, most of the dwarves caught entirely off guard. They either hadn’t noticed Bilbo’s warning or had ignored it and the spiders took full advantage of their prey’s surprise. Kíli's companions were captured within seconds, tied and tangled in sticky silken thread, and the once-king managed only a few glancing blows before he was brought down as well.  
  
No matter how he struggled, the archer couldn’t break free of the spiders’ webbing and he had lost his dagger somewhere in the fight. Kíli was trapped, helpless to do anything as the creatures dragged their captives through the forest, and he did not know how he had forgotten about this.  
  
For when his nightmares were not of blood, they were of being captured – blind and paralyzed and waiting for some unknown enemy – and now he was living one of his worst fears again. But that was Mirkwood’s power, to bend the mind and trick the senses and the dwarf had not realized how close Thorin’s company was to disaster before his current panic cleared his head.  
  
 _I nearly killed my uncle,_ Kíli thought in horror, the lingering echoes of his blood lust raising bile in his throat. Mirkwood might have focused the once-king’s hate on Thorin, but the foundation was all Kíli – the bones of a kin-slayer waiting beneath the vows he’d made.  
  
He was no longer innocent; he was rage and grief and fury, and where he had once felt hope and heartbreak in equal measure, the archer could not find the former now. There was only regret and an endless bitterness, the weaknesses that had allowed Mirkwood to delve into his mind.  
  
Indeed, the once-king was turning out to be a rather awful hero and if Thorin’s company somehow managed to reach Laketown safely, it would be in spite of Kíli, not because of anything he’d done. _He_ hadn’t saved his kindred from the goblins or the trolls; _he_ hadn’t stopped the Defiler from striking Thorin down. That had been the wizard and the hobbit and now the dwarves’ only hope of survival rested with their burglar once more.  
  
Kíli could do nothing but wait and think on his failures, praying that Bilbo’s courage wouldn’t fail him now. Yet if the hobbit could take on Azog without flinching, surely a nest of spiders would not turn his heart aside.  
  
This incarnation of Bilbo might be different than his predecessor, but the dwarf did not believe that he would stand by and watch as his friends died. Their burglar would try to help and the admittedly unreliable timeline of Kíli's memory said that he should have found his ring by now. Indeed, the evidence supported this assumption because the archer had seen Bilbo fiddling with his pockets several times since leaving the Misty Mountains and Kaminzabdûna had promised that some things were the same. She had promised that the most important moments of their journey would hold true across the timelines and the hobbit could not have survived without his ring in hand.  
  
In all honesty, the once-king did not think any of Thorin's company would have survived without the burglar’s magic on their side. They had needed that advantage in the past and they needed it now, their situation looking more dire with every minute that dragged by.  
  
If Bilbo did not have his ring then the dwarves were dead already and Kíli really should have kissed his hobbit when he’d had the chance. Yet how could he have done it when their burglar was staring after Thorin with pining hopeless eyes; this Bilbo no more than a living doppelganger who wore his past love's face. It wouldn't have been fair to kiss him, not when the once-king would have been kissing the shadow of a dream instead.  
  
Kíli had not ruined his second chance, he had simply never had one, and the dwarf must learn to be content with that. After all, he had grieved already – grieved for long cold decades – and attempting to mold this Bilbo into the one that he still loved so dearly would be a disservice to them both.  
  
Thus it was that when the hobbit finally arrived to free Thorin's company from the spiders' webbing, Kíli tried to see him with new eyes. Well, perhaps see was the wrong word since there was no sign of Bilbo even after the dwarves were cut free from their webbing to land on the forest floor. But the once-king was unlikely to see the burglar as long as he needed his ring's assistance and there was no one else who could have set the company free.  
  
Indeed, the archer did not need to see their hobbit in order to think upon him and there was much thinking that the dwarf must do. For Kíli had finally recognized a truth that he had been denying and while this incarnation of their burglar was certainly a friend and ally, he should no longer be the master of the once-king's heart. He should not be able to make the dwarf tremble with a smile or falter with a frown and the sooner that Kíli could separate the past and present, the better for the completion of his task.  
  
So the dwarf forced himself to reflect on the differences between the Bilbo of his memories and the one that he had grown to know since dying and when another wave of spiders suddenly set upon them, it seemed only natural to mutter, “ _My_ Bilbo killed them all.”  
  
A small shift in perspective that would make a world of difference, though Kíli was much too busy fighting to give it the attention it deserved. Because every spider the dwarves killed only brought more of the creatures down upon them and it wasn't long before the once-king's blade was black with the ichor of their blood.  
  
This nest of spiders must be far larger than the one that had captured Thorin’s company in the past and Kíli was beginning to wonder whether the dwarves would be victorious when the elves arrived. Thranduil’s people announced themselves with a rain of arrows as they dropped from the trees, sweeping through the spiders like scythes through wheat. Only when the first wave of creatures had been slaughtered did the elves turn to those they’d rescued, pointing their weapons at the dwarves suspiciously.  
  
Despite the clear threat in their eyes, it was difficult for the once-king to see Mirkwood’s elves as stranger after so many years of being somewhat reluctant allies and indeed, he had to stop himself from greeting Prince Legolas by name.  
  
While Kíli had not considered the elf a friend, they had been cordial acquaintances and it was good to see him hale again. Legolas had not survived the destruction of his homeland, but now he looked no different than he had at their last meeting some eighty years in the future, scant months before both their kingdoms fell.  
  
Of course, just because the once-king was glad that Legolas was breathing didn’t mean that he had any desire to be captured by the prince’s kin again. So Kíli began shuffling toward the edge of the group while Thorin and Legolas were busy glaring at each other, hoping to sneak away and find their burglar before the elves noticed he was gone. With his knowledge and Bilbo’s ring, the two of them should be able to accomplish the company’s escape from Thranduil’s dungeons far more quickly than his hobbit had managed in the past – perhaps quickly enough to keep their quest on track.  
  
However, the archer had barely reached the edge of the clearing when another spider burst from the bushes and seized him by the leg. Kíli fell with a shout, his sword jerking loose from his fingers as he hit the ground. The once-king tried to grab the blade but the creature pulled him toward the trees before he could, his hand closing on naught but leaves instead. Even his bow was useless, the weapon caught beneath his back where he could not reach it and it was only his frantic kicks that kept the spider's maws away.  
  
 _Valar, but I refuse to die like this,_ the once-king thought, cursing his lost dagger as more spiders appeared between the trees. He might have been able to fight off one without a weapon but half a dozen would kill him easily.  
  
Indeed, this might have been the end of Kíli’s journey if an elf had not suddenly joined the battle on his side. This elf – elfine truly – burst into the scene with style, cutting through her enemies like the sharp edge of a blade. She took out three spiders within seconds before freeing Kíli and the once-king had to pause for a moment to admire the carnage that she’d caused. Sure, the elfine’s refusal to throw him a dagger was damn aggravating, but it had been a long time since the dwarf had seen such skill and he decided then that he wanted to know more about his rescuer.  
  
This was partially just curiosity since Kíli thought that he had met all of Thranduil's guard in his last lifetime and yet he knew that he would have remembered an elfine with hair like that. The fire-crowned were considered most attractive by Mahal's children – Glóin and Bombur the only members of the company who had been blessed with wives for a reason – and this elfine bore a shade of red that the archer had never seen in life before. Which meant that she must be like Azog, dead or lost before the Valar had reshaped all history, and it was good to know that Kíli's enemies were not the only ones thus saved.  
  
Admittedly, the wood elves were acting rather a lot like enemies at the moment, stripping the dwarves of their weapons so that they could not fight or flee. But the bad blood between Durin's Folk and Mirkwood did not make their captors evil and now that Kíli had failed to avoid being captured, he would have to try diplomacy.  
  
Not with Legolas – the elf prince would have no reason to listen to the once-king now. But the elfine who had rescued Kíli wore the armor of a captain and she did not look at the dwarves with the same hatred as her kin. Instead she seemed almost curious and if the once-king could convince her that Thorin's company had meant no harm in their trespass, perhaps she could intercede with her king on their behalf.  
  
Of course, this was not a request to make of a total stranger so the archer would have to bide his time for now. He would wait and watch and pray that observation would give him insight into the elfine's mind.  
  
His information gathering was aided by the wood elves' complacency, none of them bothering to hide their conversations from the once-king's ears since no dwarf should have understood Sindarin. However, Kíli had found that same assumption quite useful during trade negotiations and he'd always had an ear for other tongues.  
  
So the archer listened as the elves talked amongst themselves, their discussion painting a far bleaker picture of Mirkwood than he truly wished to hear. For while the forest had been dark and dangerous in the past – and indeed, it had not treated Kíli kindly – the dwarf had not thought that anything truly threatened Thranduil's kingdom before the Easterlings razed Mirkwood to the ground. However, now he was learning that the elf king's realm was under siege by a far greater evil and Thranduil looked to protect only his own borders when the hammer fell.  
  
Of course, this last did not truly surprise the once-king since the wood elves had always been insular to a fault, but he did start when Legolas spoke the name Dol Guldur. That was the same fortress Beorn had mentioned, a fortress the elves talked of in hushed whispers and toward which Gandalf had been riding when he left. Their captors seemed to think that it was the source of the evil that crept over Mirkwood's borders and if the elves were right, perhaps Gandalf's errand had been justified.  
  
Perhaps the wizard had needed to abandon Thorin's company in order to right some greater wrong and if that was so, Kíli could not truly blame him for his choice. Kíli should not blame him when the once-king had faced such decisions far too often on the throne of Erebor, and yet that is exactly what the dwarf had done.  
  
Kíli had cursed the wizard's name in his darker hours, cursed him most unfairly it now seemed. For who could say whether Gandalf's presence would have changed things for the better or whether evil would have overrun Middle Earth even sooner if he'd stayed.  
  
No one knew the answer to that question, not even the Valar, but the fact that the wizard had made the same choice in both timelines was a telling sign. Gandalf must have seen a danger in the North that the once-king did not know of and it was time for Kíli to release his bitterness. This was a new lifetime after all and the dwarf's burden was heavy enough already without adding resentment to the weight upon his heart.  
  
Indeed, there was more power in forgiveness than in rancor and while it would take time for Kíli to let go of his bitterness completely, this first step made the world seem brighter than it had before. Enough that the once-king found himself smiling even as Thorin's company was locked away again, the dwarf turning back to flirt with his fair rescuer once she'd led him to his cell.  
  
“Aren't you going to search me? I could have anything down my trousers,” the archer said, dredging up his best shit-eating grin from some vault of memory.  
  
It was as much joke as strategy, an attempt to rattle the elfine and see what lay beneath her calm. Most elves were rather devoid of humor and the captain's reaction would tell Kíli whether he had any chance at all. The once-king truly wasn't expecting much, maybe a chuckle or a slight break in her facade.  
  
However, to Kíli's great surprise, he saw a flash of interest in the elfine's eyes before she shut him down, her rejection eased by the smile on the edges of her mouth. That was more than the archer had expected – that was admiration and possibly attraction – and it could give him the opening that he'd been looking for.  
  
Sure the once-king was somewhat out of practice at flirtation – very, very out of practice considering how things had gone with Bilbo – but hopefully the elfine's attraction would blind her to his stumbling. And it was attraction for the captain was not quite out of earshot when Legolas cornered her, the once-king's knowledge of Sindarin coming in handy once again.  
  
The prince demanded to know why Kíli was staring at the elfine – Tauriel, he called her – and her voice was almost dreamy when she replied. Not for long, her mask snapping back in place as soon as she realized it was slipping, but those few seconds were enough for the archer to be sure that she'd come back. She'd be back and with a bit of luck, she could convince Thranduil to release Thorin's company before their time ran out.  
  
Of course, the once-king's task would have been much easier if his uncle hadn't been determined to make the elf king as furious as possible. Thorin returned from his meeting with Thranduil with the world's most feral smile and when he said, “I told him to îsh kakhfê ai‘d dûr rugnul” in answer to Balin's question, Kíli bit back a sigh.  
  
Hopefully Tauriel would return soon, before Thorin managed to get all of them executed or Durin's Day arrived. While Kíli had lost track of the exact date after entering Mirkwood, one of his guards had mentioned the Feast of Starlight, a celebration that only took place near the waning of the year. Which meant the dwarves still had a few days left and the once-king wasn't going to give up without a fight, not when he didn't entirely trust this incarnation of Bilbo to rescue their company again.  
  
So the archer waited, tossing Kaminzabdûna's Runestone through the air to pass the time while the rest of his companions settled down to sleep. Kíli waited for almost three hours before his patience was rewarded, long enough that he almost began to doubt what he had seen. But eventually Tauriel did return; she came back just as the dwarf had known she would.  
  
Ostensibly checking on Thranduil's prisoners, the elfine paused by Kíli's cell when there was no reason to. She could not truly believe that the Runestone in his hands was a threat to her kingdom's safety and while the archer's first attempt at conversation nearly chased her off again, some fast talking brought her back. Tauriel's curiosity was the once-king's advantage, her eyes lighting up when he began to tell her about the Runestone's history.  
  
Not that Kíli could tell Tauriel the truth about the token that he carried, but he did not lie to her entirely. The stone _was_ a gift from his mother and it _was_ meant as a reminder of the promise he had made. For Kaminzabdûna was the Mother of all dwarves as much as Mahal was their Father and the Vala had been quite concerned about the once-king's task.  
  
“She worries. She thinks I'm reckless,” the dwarf continued, playing up the foolish dwarrowlad that he had been in the past. He was probably overdoing it but Tauriel didn't seem to notice, her wariness slowly dissipating beneath the once-king's feckless grin.  
  
However, as Kíli drew the elfine deeper into conversation, giving her the fire moon at Dunland in exchange for the glories of the stars, he found himself smiling truly instead of putting on an act. He liked this elfine as more than a means to freedom and if his hobbit was truly lost to him – if his Bilbo was nothing more than a ghost of memory – perhaps the dwarf should try to turn his heart toward Tauriel instead.  
  
Maybe there could never truly be love between them, but the once-king could do worse than mutual admiration and his life would hardly be more than a brief moment in her eyes. Didn't Kíli deserve some joy after everything that he'd suffered in his life?  
  
 _Right. And then the two of us will run off together, healing the feud between Mirkwood and Erebor with nothing but the power of our hearts. You're just using her to escape Thranduil's dungeons so don't be a fucking idiot,_ the archer told himself, shoving away such useless fantasies.  
  
Getting to know Tauriel was just part of Kíli's mission, one step toward the better future that the Valar had promised him. He didn't need the captain's love and he wasn't foolish enough to think that he would get it; the dwarf just needed a sympathetic ear. In truth, Kíli wasn't cruel enough to court the elfine, not when Manwë's children loved as eternally as Mahal's and his own heart wasn't his to give.  
  
So the once-king did not speak of love or attraction, instead telling Tauriel about the journeys that he had taken with his kin. There had been trading trips from the Blue Mountains to villages around the Westlands and jobs as hired hands for merchants needing guards. Kíli had been rather young when these journeys started but Thorin had trusted in his sister-son's training and the once-king had never been willing to let his brother leave his side for long.  
  
The archer had followed Fíli everywhere when they were younger, tagging along to dozens of meetings and lessons through the years. Kíli spent his time fletching arrows while his brother learned the fine art of kingship and he'd never thought that he would need to use the knowledge that he'd gleaned. Those hadn't been his lessons, the throne was never supposed to be his future, and it was Kíli's greatest wish to never wear a crown again.  
  
All he wanted was to see his uncle become King Under the Mountain, his brother standing tall and proud at Thorin's side. All Kíli wanted was to know that his family would be happy, that his kin would smile as they did in his memories. The old memories, before the war that took his brother and his uncle and his hobbit and the decades that took his mother's life.  
  
Truthfully, the dwarf's voice held more sorrow than he'd meant to show the elfine, but his longing for those bright days seemed to strike a chord inside of Tauriel. Indeed, it was only when Kíli finally told the captain about his mother that she dropped the last of her walls before him, revealing a loneliness that resonated with the once-king's time-battered heart.  
  
“I envy you those memories,” the elfine admitted, resting one slim hand against the bars. “All of my kin were slain in battle when I was but an elfling and I cannot even remember my own mother's features anymore. I only know that she loved me - that she died to save me - and I will always be grateful that my lord Thranduil took me in. I cannot say that he raised me as his own since there has always been a gap between our stations, but my lord saw that I did not go wanting and his son is the closest friend I have. For Thranduil's favor has made my kindred walk carefully around me, no one quite sure exactly where I stand.”  
  
“I think your skill speaks for you from all that I have seen,” the once-king told Tauriel, the elfine's story sounding far too familiar. “Whatever hesitance your kindred feel is their mistake alone and you should not carry that burden on your heart. I am sure that your lord Thranduil understands your worth.”  
  
Kíli and his brother had been close for many reasons. Blood and friendship had bound the dwarves together – blood and friendship and a dash of loneliness. Because there had always been a certain amount of distance surrounding Thorin's heirs, more than the lack of near age-mates could explain, and while Kíli truly adored Fíli, sometimes he had longed for a close friend just his own. But the uncrowned king had still been royalty, his sister-sons had still been princes, and Durin's Folk would never have overstepped their bounds.  
  
So Kíli and Fíli had grown up with no one but each other with whom to share their secrets and Tauriel's situation sounded similar. Indeed, the elfine likely had it worse since she was not a true member of Thranduil's family, no bonds of kinship to support her when the world grew cold.  
  
Yet the once-king's words of sympathy did not have the effect that he'd intended. Kíli had meant them as a comfort, a way to show Tauriel that he understood her struggles just as he hoped she would understand his own. But instead the captain suddenly seemed to remember that she was speaking with a prisoner, her expression becoming as hard as stone again.  
  
“I have tarried here too long,” the elfine said frostily, no remnant left of the laughter they had shared. “Keep your sympathies and your stories; I know my duty and I will give my king no cause to doubt me now.”  
  
With this pronouncement, Tauriel spun on her heel and left the dungeon, Kíli staring after her in shock. He couldn't believe that he'd managed to ruin everything so quickly, a few ill-chosen words destroying all the progress he had made. Kíli should have waited for the captain to offer her assistance instead of trying to cajole it, the nearness of Durin's Day pushing the dwarf into impatience when he should have stalked his target slow. So the archer had tipped his hand too early and now Tauriel was gone, disappearing as quickly as any doe startled in the brush.  
  
Thorin's company would receive no aid from that quarter unless the elfine had a sudden change of heart, and Kíli did not think that this was likely given what she owed to Thranduil. Maybe if the once-king had had a week he might still have swayed her, but the dwarves did not have a week to spare.  
  
 _Sorry, Bilbo. I guess it's down to you again,_ Kíli thought, cursing his failures even as he slumped back against the wall. He might as well get some rest before the morning; he would need his wits about him if the company's burglar did not come through this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirkwood and I do not get along. But I will do my best to ensure that the next chapter doesn't take so long and this fic will actually be betaed at some point once it's complete.


	7. Preface - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse.

“Bilbo!”  
  
The once-king was woken from his doze by Balin's exclamation, Kíli sitting up to look through the bars of his prison cell. Bilbo was standing there, holding a ring of keys and beaming proudly at his cleverness. It seemed the archer's failure to win over Tauriel would not mean the ruin of their chances, assuming that the other dwarves did not alert half of Mirkwood with their excited shouts.  
  
“Ssh! There are guards nearby,” Bilbo hissed before the once-king could say that same thing himself. The hobbit unlocked Thorin's cell before moving to free the rest of his companions, the dwarves gathering together on the stairs.  
  
 _I wish I remembered where Thranduil kept his weapons; I would feel much more comfortable with my sword and bow in hand._  
  
But Kíli didn't remember and there wasn't time to search when dawn was nipping at their heels. To tell the truth, it didn't really matter since the strongest blade of steel would not bring the dragon down. That required Bard and his Black Arrow rather than swords or axes and once Smaug had been slain, Thorin's company would have access to the Lonely Mountain's armory.  
  
Those vaults could arm every elf in Mirkwood without running empty and this time around, the once-king hoped to do just that. Thranduil, Bard, and Thorin must be allies before Bolg or Azog arrived on the battlefield – probably both with Kíli's luck – though the dwarf hadn't figured out how to make that happen yet.  
  
Diplomacy alone was unlikely to be successful considering the tone of Thorin and Thranduil's earlier conversation and the men of Laketown had not been particularly rational before. So the once-king would have to make his uncle see the greater threat for only the approach of his ancient enemy would make him forgive his allies' greed. It was death and honor that had brought Thorin from the mountain and it would be naught but honor once again.  
  
If only Kíli had a way to prove his knowledge, one that his companions would actually believe. One that spoke with the weight of true authority.  
  
 _I need the ravens,_ the once-king realized with a sudden burst of clarity. _After Smaug falls, the ravens will return to Erebor and surely one of Roäc's kindred could be convinced to scout out our enemies._ Thorin should trust the raven's word where he would not trust his sister-son's and with three more days to prepare, the Battle of the Five Armies should go much differently.  
  
Of course, all of this was moot if the dwarves could not escape from Thranduil's dungeon, but their burglar seemed to have the situation well in hand. For when Dwalin motioned Ori toward the stairs, Bilbo stopped him, leading his companions down instead.  
  
The hobbit took them deeper into the earth, through a maze of halls and chambers that Kíli found deceptively familiar. For the passages that should lead toward the cellars instead ended in locked doorways and the paths that their burglar took were not ones he’d seen before. Indeed, the once-king could not be entirely sure that this Bilbo had the same idea as the last one and he had to admit that a different escape route would be rather nice.  
  
Those barrels had not been the archer’s favorite form of travel and maybe this incarnation of Thranduil would at least have a raft that the dwarves could borrow for a time. But it seemed there was only one way to escape the elf king's dungeons because it wasn't long before Bilbo was leading his companions into the wine cellars just as he had before.  
  
“This way,” the burglar said, waving the dwarves toward a very familiar stack of empty casks while Kíli covered his sigh with an exclamation of incredulity.  
  
“I don't believe it; we're in the cellars,” the once-king groaned, his thoughts more along the lines of, _Oh, come on, really? I don't want to do this part again._ But a little bit of nausea was a small price to pay for freedom so when Bilbo told the dwarves to climb into the barrels, the archer moved forward without any more complaints.  
  
Unfortunately, Kíli was about the only one who _didn't_ protest, the rest of the dwarves milling around indecisively. Bilbo might have proved his courage but his companions weren't so sure about his cleverness, not when the hobbit's plan seemed illogical.  
  
“We'll be trapped,” Nori muttered to Dori.  
  
“Like fish in barrels,” Bofur agreed.  
  
“I don't like small spaces,” Ori added, “Especially not ones that smell like _that_.”  
  
 _'Sweet elvish wine. Terrible stuff.'_ Bifur signed even as Bombur eyed the casks speculatively, probably wondering whether there were any drops of alcohol inside.  
  
The once-king could hardly get a word in edgewise and the dwarves might have stood there bickering forever if their leader hadn't intervened. Thorin must have realized that this served no purpose and indeed, the long that they argued the greater chance of being caught again. So the dwarf lord ordered his companions to do as Bilbo had requested, his command putting an end to the arguing quite effectively. For while the dwarves were happy to doubt their burglar, they would not disobey their king.  
  
So Kíli climbed into one of Thranduil's empty wine casks with the others, trying to settle himself somewhat comfortably. The fit should be a little better once he was in the river and his barrels was pointing toward the sky instead of sideways, but there was only so much the once-king could do about his bony hips and knees. Kíli fully expected to be bruised all to hell by the time the company's river trip was finished – bruised and nauseous and very, very wet.  
  
Yet it seemed that this portion of the journey would not be quite the same as he remembered and the archer could not decide whether the lack of lids upon the casks was an improvement or a flaw in Bilbo's plan. For while he appreciated the ability to breathe more freely, these open barrels would not hide the dwarves from their captors' eyes.  
  
 _I guess we'll just have to leave before those fools wake up,_ Kíli thought, sparing a glance toward the drunken elves who should have been guarding Thranduil's wine more carefully. But their incompetence was the company's advantage, particularly since there didn't appear to be any barrel lids nearby.  
  
Without those to hide them, the dwarves could not trick their captors into facilitating their escape upon the river and so the archer was really hoping that Bilbo was not just winging it.  
  
Indeed, Kíli was as curious as his companions about the burglar's intentions, the once-king looking back at Bilbo when Bofur asked, “What do we do now?”  
  
“Hold your breath,” the hobbit told him, his crooked grin laying the archer's doubts to rest.  
  
“Hold my breath? What do you mean?” Bofur had barely finished his question before Bilbo pulled a nearby lever and the floor underneath the barrels tilted sharply down. Kíli held onto the rim of his barrel tightly as it began to roll toward the newly created exit, his stomach leaping into his throat when the cask hit open air.  
  
A few seconds later, the once-king landed in the river, water drenching his shoulders before his barrel floated up again. Kíli was one of the first to surface, only Thorin further down the channel when he looked around. Thankfully, the current had pulled him forward enough that the rest of his companions didn't brain him when they landed, the dwarves dropping into the water one after another like links of chain.  
  
A broken chain, the trapdoor through which they'd fallen closing without sign of their burglar.  
  
“Sound off,” Thorin called back to his companions, the chorus of voices that answered confirming what Kíli's eyes had seen. Bilbo had not come through the trap door with them and the archer did not know if the mechanism could be opened from this side. _But..._  
  
“We have to wait for Bilbo,” the once-king told his uncle, reaching out to grab the rough walls of the channel and stop his barrel's drift. “We can't leave without him.”  
  
For a second, Kíli thought that Thorin was going to argue, a stranger looking back at him through the dwarf lord's eyes. But then the moment passed and his uncle was just his uncle once again.  
  
“Of course we wait,” the other dwarf agreed, signaling the rest of their company to grab hold of the rocks as well. “We won't get very far without our burglar.”  
  
Although that initial hesitation still worried Kíli, the once-king didn't have time to dwell on it for long. Indeed, Thorin's company hadn't been waiting for more than a minute before the trap door high above them tilted open one more time and Bilbo tumbled through. He plunged into the river and came up spluttering, grabbing hold of Nori's cask to keep his head above the surface even as the cavern echoed with angry elvish shouts. The wood elves had discovered their prisoners' escape much more quickly than Kíli had hoped but now that Bilbo had rejoined them, the dwarves were free to move.  
  
So the once-king and his companions paddled forward until the river's current took their barrels and sent them shooting through the stone passage toward the glimmer of daylight. The water was swift and wild, carrying Thorin's company outside of Thranduil's hall in seconds and straight into a cascade of waterfalls.  
  
“Hold on!” the dwarf lord shouted as they plunged into the rapids, their barrels spinning round and round uncontrollably. All Kíli could do – all any of the company could do – was follow Thorin's order, holding on tightly and trying to avoid the biggest rocks. The once-king was only half successful at this latter, every collision slamming him against the side of his cask painfully. By the time the dwarves reached slightly calmer waters, Kíli knew that he would indeed be bruised black and blue tomorrow and he was already as wet and nauseous as he remembered from doing this before.  
  
However, even though the archer's head was spinning, he wasn't too discombobulated to notice when Legolas ran out of Thranduil's stronghold with a snarl on his face.  
  
“Holo in-annon!” the elf prince shouted to the guard behind him, Kíli translating the words in his head even as the other elf raised his horn to blow a warning call.  
  
 _Shut the gate? What gate?_ the once-king thought, his mind racing through the possibilities. But then the dwarves rounded the curve of the river and the answer to Kíli's question was suddenly all too clear.  
  
For there was a guard post up ahead, stone arching across the river from bank to bank. On top of this bridge stood armored warriors, the elves snapping to attention at their prince's call. One ran to a lever positioned near the center of the archway and when he pulled it, a metal sluice gate clanged shut across the river down below. There was no way for Thorin's company to pry it open, not with their bare fingers, and the dwarves let out a curse as their barrels came to sudden stop. They were trapped, pinned beneath the stone bridge of the guard post with no way to flee.  
  
 _Why does every change only seem to make our journey harder?_ Kíli wondered, cursing whatever twist of fate had made Thranduil build a sluice gate here. _Surely something should have gotten better when the Valar rewrote history?_  
  
There was Tauriel, yes, but she was only one bright spark within a sea of darkness and her existence hadn't exactly freed the company. More enemies, more obstacles, and more hate between the races; the Valar could not have done a better job of ruining Thorin's chances if they'd tried.  
  
But maybe this was necessary; maybe these struggles would somehow save the once-king's kindred when ease had cost their lives. Indeed, there was no way to know how the threads of fate had been rewoven and the dwarf could only trust that there was a greater purpose here. For Kíli's old life was gone and he had to stop thinking of his past as the true future before his expectations cost him everything. Perhaps there shouldn't have been a gate here but there was, and no amount of denial would somehow make it disappear.  
  
However, the wood elves soon proved to be the least of Kíli's worries as one of Thranduil's warriors suddenly crumpled, a crude black arrow in his back.  
  
“Watch out! There's orcs!” Bofur shouted, the monsters swarming over the guard post and falling upon the elves with naked steel. Caught off guard and seriously outnumbered, most of the elves died quickly, those that remained too busy fighting for their lives to worry about Thorin's company.  
  
Not that the dwarves were faring any better as the orcs leaped into the river, their teeth bared in feral snarls as their blades flashed down. It was difficult to dodge with the casks pressed so close together, one orc nearly slicing off Kíli's head before he managed to shove the creature off. Next to him, Fíli and Bilbo together took out another orc while the rest of the dwarves fought their own private battles, those further from the sluice gate fending off their enemies with fists and fury while the others huddled beneath the guard post and tried to dodge the bodies as they fell.  
  
A cowardly choice, maybe, but the best option that they had. For Bilbo was the only member of the company with a weapon and climbing onto the shore without one would be suicide.  
  
Let Thranduil's warriors have the glory in this skirmish; the dwarves and their hobbit just needed to survive. Thorin's company just needed to wait until Legolas caught up to his prisoners and thinned out the orc pack – he was something of a one elf army after all – before taking advantage of the chaos to slip away without their pursuers noticing.  
  
At least, that was the plan. Yet it seemed that Kíli did not have such time to spare.  
  
For when the once-king looked back toward Thranduil's stronghold, he saw something that made his blood go cold. It was Bolg, spawn of Azog, and the bane of Durin's sons. The archer did not want to believe that the fates could be so cruel, but the orc looked just the same as he had on the day that Kíli killed him, identical down to the feral snarl and his one milky eye.  
  
Which meant that Thorin's company could not stay here any longer, not when Bolg had nearly wiped out the line of Durin singlehandedly in a far more equal fight.  
  
So Kíli planted his foot on Dwalin's barrel and leaped for the riverbank, landing at the base of the guard post's stairs. He would reach the lever to the sluice gate no matter what the cost. But he had barely gained his feet before an orc was upon him, the archer ducking his enemy's wild sword strike and then slamming the orc's head against the rocks.  
  
“Kíli! Here!” The once-king turned at his name, catching the blade that Dwalin tossed him before spinning to bury it inside his enemy. Then another orc was upon him, this one falling quickly now that Kíli had a blade in hand.  
  
Indeed, two slashes and a kick sent that foe tumbling into the river, leaving the way clear for the archer to sprint up the guard post's stairs. Kíli met two more orcs at the top of the bridge, his blade catching against that of one enemy even as the other came up on him from behind. The once-king twisted, trying to turn and block the blow that was surely falling toward his neck. Yet before his enemy's spear could reach its target, the orc suddenly fell back with a dagger in his chest. This left Kíli free to face his other foe without further interruption, the archer slicing off the creature's head with one clean strike.  
  
 _Thank you, Fíli,_ the once-king thought, sparing a quick glance toward his fallen enemy. A dagger throw such as that could only have been his brother and it was good to know that Fíli still had the archer's back.  
  
With these orcs dead, Kíli's path to his goal was finally clear. So he ran forward, pausing only to take out another orc as it leaped over the parapet. Indeed, the dwarf had nearly reached the sluice lever when something slammed into his leg and the world disappeared in white-hot agony. Kíli tried to grab the lever as he fell but his body would not answer, the once-king crumpling to the stone with a shout.  
  
He heard his brother scream his name but it was distant, Fíli's voice muffled by the ringing in his ears. Because there was only pain, the archer groaning on the ground like a wounded animal.  
  
However, while Kíli's body was untempered, his mind had faced far worse than this and he slowly clawed his way back to awareness once again. He shoved the pain down deep where it could not control him, opening his eyes to see another orc charging toward him before the monster toppled with an arrow in its neck. The archer traced the missile's path back to its source, a bolt of surprise shooting through him when he spied Tauriel.  
  
The elfine seemed to be making a habit of saving Kíli in this lifetime, though whether this was due to the Valar's interference or her own sense of honor, the once-king could not say. Whatever the reason, the dwarf was glad to have Tauriel's assistance against such enemies as these.  
  
For the captain was even more impressive now than she had been against the spiders, her blade flying swift and sure to strike her enemies. At her back came Legolas and another band of warriors, their arrows killing a half dozen orcs before their foes could blink.  
  
In an instant, the orc pack turned its attention from Thorin's company to these new arrivals, charging toward the wood elves with a roar. So Kíli seized the opening that Tauriel and the others had created, dragging himself back to his feet again. For the once-king had a task to complete – his friends and kin were counting on him – and no orcish arrow would keep the former Lord of Silver Fountains on his knees.  
  
The archer staggered forward and threw his weight upon the lever, the gate creaking open underneath Kíli's feet before the dwarf's strength failed him and he fell back to the stone again. But his kin would be waiting for him – Fíli would be waiting for him – so the once-king could not rest just yet.  
  
Instead he dragged himself to the edge of the bridge and looked down to see his empty barrel floating there even as his brother shouted his name in relief. Kíli took a second to aim and then shoved himself off the edge, landing back in his cask once again. That hurt nearly as much as being shot in the first place, the shaft of the arrow snapping off on the edge of his barrel and jamming the arrowhead hard into his thigh.  
  
However, the once-king couldn't do anything about that at the moment; he could do nothing but hold onto his barrel for dear life. Because the rest of Thorin's company had pushed off as soon as Kíli joined them, and now they were hurtling down the river, every bend bringing another set of rapids or a rushing waterfall.  
  
Every ripple seemed to jostle the archer's injury, the broken shaft of the arrow catching on the wood of his barrel and nearly making him pass out. Only the knowledge that passing out would probably kill him kept the once-king conscious, his jaw aching as he clenched his teeth against the pain. Because Kíli had no intention of drowning in this cursed river; no orc was going to kill him a few scant miles from his goal.  
  
His wound might be serious, but it should not be lethal and the archer was so very close to Erebor. Kíli just had to last a little longer; he just had to survive until the Valar finally told him how to bring about a better future and thus save his people's lives.  
  
Although, saving anyone was currently beyond the once-king's power, the fate of Thorin's company resting in other hands. For elves and orcs waged battle as the dwarves hurtled down the river, the wood elves dancing along the tree branches while the orcs ran along the banks. These monsters attacked Kíli and the others whenever the dwarves' barrels neared the shore, Thorin's company forced to fend off their enemies with whatever they could reach. Fists and rocks and stolen weapons; the dwarves throwing their few blades back and forth.  
  
Kíli's companions acquitted themselves well considering the circumstances but the true heroes of the hour were Legolas and Tauriel. The dwarves probably would not have survived without their assistance, Legolas in particular proving himself quite the acrobat. His arrows struck true no matter what his footing and the once-king could not deny a twinge of jealousy at the other's skill. The archer had managed to defeat Bard a time or two but never Legolas, some things beyond a mortal's span of years.  
  
Indeed, the elf probably could have recaptured Thorin's company singlehandedly if the land itself had not worked against him, Legolas caught upon a cliff top while the river ran on swiftly down below. Soon the dwarves had left their pursuers far behind, orcs and elves alike disappearing out of sight.  
  
Now that the company was out of danger for the moment, Kíli finally let himself relax, slumping down in his barrel with a groan. He needed to get the arrow out of his leg as soon as possible, but first he would need to slow the bleeding so he didn’t pass out partway through. So the dwarf pressed one hand to his wound and waited until the flow of blood finally began to ease before ripping a piece of cloth from his tunic and setting to his task.  
  
The once-king tore his trousers open further, widening the hole left by the arrow until his fingers fit inside. There was enough of the shaft still sticking out for Kíli to grab onto but the wood was slick with blood and it took several tries before he managed to grip it properly. Then the once-king began to pull, thanking the Valar that this particularly arrowhead was not barbed as so many orcish weapons were. Indeed, the arrow came out smoothly, Kíli tossing it into the river as a fresh gush of blood poured from the gash it left behind.  
  
The archer's leg would need to be bound before too long or risk him hemorrhaging, but he did not have enough room to manage that right now. Instead, the dwarf pressed the torn piece of his tunic over the wound, bracing his arm against the side of his barrel so that the pressure remained steady even as the company drifted on.  
  
Kíli stayed in this position until the river slowed, the current easing from the wild rush that it had been before. The dwarves had finally reached calmer waters, which meant that Esgaroth should be close now, and yet there were no men waiting for their barrels up ahead.  
  
There were no men, nor huts, nor rafts to carry Thorin's company to Laketown, just an empty stone pier some yards further down the bank, and the once-king didn't know how they were supposed to reach that city now. The dwarves could hardly swim across the Long Lake and he doubted that they could outrun an orc pack half-drowned and injured as they were. Indeed, the only thing Kíli was sure of was that Thranduil's barrels would only slow them down. So the archer struck out for the riverbank even as his uncle ordered the rest of the company to make for shore as well.  
  
They would have to run for it and hope that Laketown was closer than the once-king remembered or that the orcs had fallen far enough behind. But when Kíli climbed onto the rocks, he barely made it ten steps before his leg buckled underneath him, the dwarf letting out a groan of frustrated agony.  
  
He could not run like this and yet he also could not be the reason for Thorin's failure; he would simply have to find the strength somehow.  
  
So Kíli forced the grimace from his face when he noticed Bofur watching, refusing to show any weakness that might slow his company.  
  
“I'm fine. It's nothing,” he growled at the miner, pouring his frustration into his voice as though that might make his statement true. But Bofur just ignored his outburst for the reality of Kíli's wound was all too visible.  
  
Indeed, Fíli dropped down next to his brother moments later, pulling the fabric of the archer’s trousers aside to look at his injury. The wound was only seeping now rather than gushing but even that much was troubling considering the amount of pressure that the once-king had applied. So Kíli couldn’t fault his brother for the worry in his expression and he offered no further protest when the other dwarf began to wrap his leg.  
  
However, Fíli had barely started before Thorin ordered his companions to his feet, the dwarf lord either oblivious or indifferent to his sister-son’s injury.  
  
“Kíli's wounded. His leg needs binding,” Fíli protested, his protective streak warring with his loyalty. Indeed, it seemed that the former was stronger where Kíli was concerned because the dwarf did not wait for permission before returning to his task even as Balin and Dwalin chimed in with protests of their own.  
  
The sons of Fundin had always been the most practical of Thorin's companions and their words echoed the once-king's earlier thoughts. If anything, the other two dwarves were even more pessimistic than the archer had been, Dwalin certain that the orc pack would run them down before nightfall. Yet a slim chance of success was better than none at all and when the argument ended, it was Thorin who had the final say.  
  
“Bind his leg, quickly. You have two minutes,” the dwarf lord told his sister-son, Fíli nodding in agreement as though he weren't already half-finished with the task.  
  
Indeed, the other dwarf would likely complete his work with time to spare, only a few layers of the bandage left to tie. However, even if Thorin would not have the chance to grow impatient, Kíli was already chafing at the delay his injury had caused, the archer all too aware that their time was running out.  
  
 _Whichever of my ancestors built that secret door into the mountain is getting punched if I ever make to the Halls of Mandos,_ the once-king promised himself fervently. _What use is a door that can only be opened from the outside once a year?_  
  
Seriously, that was just bad planning and both of Kíli's lives would have been much easier if that ancient king had had some sense instead. As it was, the dwarves only had a few days left to reach the mountain and if they failed, the once-king might as well just slit his own throat now. For if Smaug was not slain before Azog and his spawn came for Thorin, the Defiler's army would crush his foes against the walls of Erebor.  
  
 _Two days left. Two days and then the New Year. If you were ever planning on granting us a miracle, now would be the time,_ the once-king prayed, gripping Kaminzabdûna's Runestone tightly in one hand.  
  
And the Vala answered him with a flash of movement in the corner of his eye.  
  
Kíli turned to see a man, his face shrouded in darkness against the brightness of the sky and his hands holding a great longbow at the ready. So the dwarf leaped to his feet, scooping up a rock in lieu of any other weapon even as Dwalin grabbed a piece of wood nearby. But the stranger drew and fired as fast as lightning, stopping Dwalin's charge with one well-paced arrow and then shooting the rock from Kíli's hand.  
  
“Do it again and you're dead,” the man warned as he nocked another arrow, pinning the dwarves with a suspicious glare.  
  
He was treating them like strangers and yet he wasn't one, the sound of his voice so familiar in the once-king's ears. For this was Bard the Bowman, appearing somewhat earlier in the company's journey than he had before.  
  
However, Kíli was beyond worrying about every tiny change in the timeline and right now Bard was one of the best things that he'd ever seen. Sure the bowman was rather more bedraggled and a great deal more suspicious than the king the dwarf remembered, but that was understandable given the general bleakness of this new reality.  
  
Indeed, a grim-faced Bard was nothing compared to Azog or the other changes that Mahal and his Lady had wrought within the world. Kíli was just glad to know that the bowman was still breathing since they would need Girion’s heir in order to end the dragon’s reign.  
  
Although, Bard seemed more likely to shoot Thorin than Smaug at the moment, his hands twitching whenever the dwarf lord moved. But his display of skill aside, he hadn’t actually hurt anyone so Thorin’s company just needed to convince him that they weren’t dangerous, something that shouldn’t be too difficult considering the way they looked right now.  
  
However, before the once-king could try to talk the bowman down, his leg suddenly twinged again. The sharp burst of pain nearly drove Kíli to his knees, his voice stolen before he could speak. Instead it was Balin who stepped forward to negotiate, his calm demeanor gradually making Bard relax as well.  
  
“That barge over there, it wouldn't be available for hire by any chance?” the old dwarf asked, nodding toward the wooden vessel that was now tied to the pier. Kíli didn't know how the company had failed to notice the barge earlier but perhaps their arguing had covered the sound of Bard's approach. The man certainly moved quietly as he slung his bow across his back and began to roll the empty wine barrels toward the dock, loading them onto his boat one by one.  
  
“What makes you think I will help you?” Bard asked the dwarves once he had finished, the company having gathered on the pier while he worked.  
  
Even Kíli had limped over with his brother's assistance, sitting down heavily on one of the pylons while Balin did his work. The old dwarf had always had a silver tongue and the once-king was sure that his negotiations would be successful if he were granted enough time.  
  
So Kíli did not pay much attention to the details of the conversation, the archer more concerned with ensuring that the men of Laketown did not become their enemies. Last time Thorin had won the Master and his people over with the assumption of future riches, but that had been slim comfort to the men once their home had burned. The company needed to do more this time around and if a share of the treasure would stop the battle before it started, the once-king would give up his own portion happily.  
  
If the dwarves and men had a standing agreement in place then there would be no need for demands on the part of Laketown because the King Under the Mountain must always keep his word.  
  
Admittedly, it had been Bard not the Master who had brought his army to the gates of Erebor, but the bowman had not been above the lure of treasure and any treaty negotiated would apply to him as well. Thus the once-king would try to convince his uncle to make a deal with the Master and if such a treaty failed, this earlier meeting with the bowman might be the stroke of luck that saved Thorin's company.  
  
For both Bard and Thorin should be more willing to negotiate if the man could be turned into a friend before the company left Laketown and even a small change in the tone of Bard’s demands might be enough for peace. Because Thorin had not lacked sympathy for the plight of Laketown's people and he might bow to an entreaty where would not bow to threats.  
  
Of course, the bowman was just as stubborn in his own way and the company’s negotiations took a sharp turn when Dwalin grew annoyed with his brother’s strategy. He had never been the most patient dwarrow and his patience was not increased by the orc pack on their trail.  
  
“Oh come on, come on. Enough with the niceties,” the warrior growled, interrupting Balin in the middle of a word.  
  
But if Dwalin was hoping that brusqueness would make Bard move faster, he was doomed to be disappointed. Indeed, the bowman actually seemed less inclined to help them, staring down at the dwarf suspiciously as he asked, ““What's your hurry?”  
  
“What's it to you?”  
  
“I would like to know who you are and what you are doing in these lands.”  
  
It seemed a reasonable question and the perfect opening for Thorin to tell Bard of their quest. Once the man knew their purpose, he would have no reason to refuse them passage, not when the Master of Laketown should be overjoyed to hear this news.  
  
However, instead of telling Bard the truth, Balin claimed that he and his companions were merchants from the Blue Mountains on their way to the Iron Hills, the old dwarf making no mention of Thorin's rightful place in Erebor. It seemed overly cautious, needlessly so when silence might actually harm their cause.  
  
Particularly since the bowman didn't look like he believed them, Bard raising one eyebrow skeptically. “Simple merchants, you say?”  
  
 _No. Not merchants. The King Under the Mountain come to claim his throne again,_ Kíli thought in frustration, but before he could say any of that, his leg burned again. Indeed, every time the archer tried to interject, something would interrupt him – either his wound or Fíli or another member of their company. So the negotiations went on without the once-king, lies and gruffness replacing the truth he wished to speak.  
  
“We'll need food, supplies, weapons. Can you help us?” Thorin asked bluntly, apparently deciding that he agreed with Dwalin about the niceties.  
  
“I know where these barrels came from,” Bard replied, running his hands over the gashes that the company's foes had left upon the wood.  
  
“What of it?”  
  
“I don't know what business you had with the elves, but I don't think it ended well,” the bowman answered. “No one enters Laketown but by leave of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He will see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil.”  
  
 _Which is why we're going to promise him a fucking heap of treasure,_ Kíli tried to shout. Tried and failed once more.  
  
Instead he had to watch as Balin negotiated their hidden passage into Laketown, Bard giving in when the old dwarf offered double for his help. He still wasn't particularly gracious about it but at least he finally allowed Thorin's company to climb aboard his barge.  
  
So the once-king settled on the deck next to Bilbo and his brother, stretching his leg out in a futile attempt to ease the pain. When everyone was on board, Bard pushed off into the river, poling his barge forward with an easy competence. This wasn't how Kíli had wanted to enter Laketown, but he could figure out how to force a meeting between Thorin and the Master later on. For despite Bard's warning about the Master's temper, the archer was sure that this would be the best hope for their future, as sure as he was that his time was running out.  
  
 _Laketown. Treaty. Erebor. Dragon._ These were the tasks that lay before him, the last obstacles before the battle that would decide everything. Although, in truth, the treaty was the only one that mattered to him now.  
  
For Thorin's company was sure to find the door if Laketown could be convinced to offer passage, their time short but not run out just yet. They would enter Erebor and while Kíli would have preferred to stop the lake from burning, Smaug must be prodded from his fortress before he could be slain. After all, Bard would need a clean shot in order to kill the dragon, though the once-king did not doubt who would win the day. Indeed, the bowman had shown his skill already and his arrow would fly true once he knew where the wyrm's weak point lay. His Black Arrow, the last gift of Girion to his descendant and the kingdoms of the East.  
  
Some things must hold true between the once-king's lifetimes. Some things must be locked within the framework of the Valar's weaving even though the weft had changed and after Smaug had fallen, Kíli should be able to rest until Azog's armies came.  
  
He needed rest. He needed rest desperately to ease the fire in his blood. Indeed, the once-king was having trouble thinking, his grand plans for diplomacy lost to fragments beneath the pounding of his head. So instead of planning, the dwarf huddled in the bottom of the barge with his companions, pain burning through him in sharp waves that made his vision blur.  
  
The once-king could only endure, fighting to stay awake and praying to the Valar that he would manage to see his journey through. Kíli might not fear death – by Kaminzabdûna's grace, it would almost be a mercy – but he did not want to die for nothing now.  
  
He did not want to die a failure and be barred from the Halls of Mandos for eternity.  
  
Thus the archer must find the strength to continue until his wound began to mend; the Sons of Durin were blessed with rapid healing to balance out their stubbornness. Indeed, Kíli's stubborn will was all that kept him conscious while Bard poled his barge toward Laketown, that and the worried looks of the hobbit at his side.  
  
Both Fíli and Bilbo kept glancing over when they thought he wasn't looking, their hands twitching at his every wince, and he would not make them worry more by revealing his true pain. Not when his brother and his hobbit were exactly what Kíli was fighting for. His people, his family, his beloved and his future; Fíli and Bilbo at the top of every list. For even if this Bilbo was not his Bilbo any longer, the once-king owed the hobbit a debt he could not pay. The once-king owed their burglar everything and he would fight Sauron himself to stop his lifeblood from watering the battlefield again.  
  
Kíli would protect the hobbit this time. He would protect everyone this time and once the dust had settled, Kíli would let the hobbit go.  
  
The dwarf would finish what he had started back in Mirkwood. He would snuff the tiny spark of hope and accept the pain of heartbreak without allowing it to rule him as it had done before. Kíli would live and he would be content with the knowledge that everyone he loved still lived as well.  
  
That was the only future – the only truth – that the once-king believed in any longer and it must begin in Laketown with the Master's avarice.  
  
So the archer focused on breathing. He focused on the future to clear his face of pain and trap his cries behind his teeth. Kíli stayed silent even as Bard ordered Thorin's company back into the elf king's barrels, his leg protesting the move with a fresh wave of agony. He stayed silent when the bowman drowned the dwarves in fish in order to smuggle them into Laketown, the cold touch and smell of death threatening to make the once-king sick. But throwing up would only make things worse and so Kíli forced his gorge down somehow, the whispers of his companions and the shouts of men around them turned to gibberish by the rushing in his ears.  
  
By the time Bard had brought them into Laketown safely, the archer was dizzy with pain and nausea and he nearly lost it when his barrel was dumped out again. Indeed, standing took all of the once-king's focus, Laketown nothing but a blur of wood and water as the bowman led Thorin's company through the city's twisting streets.  
  
The shakiness of Kíli's footing was not helped by Laketown's ramshackle architecture and the dwarf breathed a sigh of relief when they finally reached Bard's house. Sneaking into the building via the man's water closet wasn't exactly pleasant but the dunking helped to clear the archer's head and once Thorin's company was safely settled, Kíli was finally able to take the weight off of his injury.  
  
Indeed, the dwarf sat down on a bench with a sigh, accepting a blanket and hot mug from one of Bard's daughters with a nod of thanks. To tell the truth, Kíli had not been expecting daughters since Bain had been an only child in the once-king's memory. But perhaps they were like Tauriel and if the archer's return had to change something within Laketown, at least it had created beauty as well as hunger here. Bard would certainly fight all the harder with such treasures to protect.  
  
Soon every member of Thorin's company was taken care of, their soaked clothes laid out to dry by the fireplace. Given how wet the dwarves had been, they would be waiting for at least an hour and the once-king was not very pleased with the delay.  
  
But a treaty was always better made from strength than desperation, though the latter would do if there was no other choice, and Thorin should feel much more secure when armed and dry again. Secure and hopefully more open to the thought of sharing since Durin's Folk were not exactly known for their magnanimity.  
  
This delay was necessary and the time spent waiting need not be wasted when Bard and Thorin might still find common ground. So the archer pulled himself to his feet and walked over to his uncle where he stood with Balin, Kíli waiting on the edges of their conversation for an opening.  
  
However, the once-king soon found himself listening with more interest when he realized exactly what the other two dwarves were discussing, their words centered on Black Arrows and Girion's last stand. Just Balin's account of Azanulbizar, this tale differed from Kíli's remembered history, but there was only one detail that the once-king cared about: Black Arrows still existed in this world and Smaug the Terrible would dance straight on to hell.  
  
Of course, this conversation also proved that Thorin and Bard had no intention of becoming bosom buddies, their tongues barely civil as they discussed the tale. Disappointing, yes, but not entirely unexpected and something that Kíli could still work around. Instead it was Bain who nearly made the once-king break his cover and join the conversation, the boy interrupting his elders with a wild claim.  
  
“Then you would know that Girion hit the dragon,” Bain said, Thorin's ill-concealed contempt for Girion raising the young man's anger in defense of Dale's last king. “He loosened a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast.”  
  
This tale seemed fanciful, a fairy story as Dwalin called it, and yet there was a ring of truth about the claim. It seemed fitting that Girion would lay the foundation for his descendant's triumph, Bard's victory redeeming Dale's defeat, and Kíli would have liked to question Bain for more details of the tale.  
  
However, the archer's clarity was beginning to fade as the pain in his leg grew stronger, the edge of his focus fraying bit by bit. He would have to trust in his former ally – trust that Bard truly did know the dragon's weak point and would strike him down again, the existence of Black Arrows one less worry off his mind.  
  
Only one because Kíli was growing increasingly certain that his injury had taken with blood fever, though the dwarf had never heard of a wound turning foul so fast. Usually a cut must be left to fester before the poison came but the archer would not put it past Bolg to lace his arrowheads. The orc had poisoned him, killed the once-king in this timeline as sure as he had murdered Thorin and Fíli in the past – the full complement of Durins cut down by his hand.  
  
Where the dwarf had hoped for days, he might only have a few hours before Bolg's poison claimed him and Óin had nothing with which to heal or ease this sort of injury. The healer's herb pouches had been taken by the elf king when Thorin's company was imprisoned and with them, Thranduil had stolen any chance that Kíli might have had.  
  
Which meant that the once-king had to set Thorin on the best path that he was able before his time ran out, hoping against hope that this would be enough to change their people's destiny. He would pray that Mahal had been mistaken about the entire company needing to reach the Lonely Mountain even as he did his best to hold on just in case. Kíli would crawl to Erebor if he had to; he would drag himself across the threshold with the last breath in his body if that would see his family safe.  
  
But that task would become more difficult as his strength began to fail him and so the once-king tried to urge Thorin to haste instead of patience now. He reminded his uncle that they must reach Erebor before Durin's Day had ended or all of their struggles would be pointless, two lifetimes wasted if the company was late.  
  
Kíli could not afford to wait, not when every heartbeat was spreading poison through his veins. He needed a deal with Laketown's Master and he needed it to happen now.  
  
However, before the once-king could suggest a meeting, Bard interrupted the dwarves' conversation, the bowman laying a wrapped bundle on his kitchen table with a thunk. Balin had bartered for weapons and Bard had brought them the best that he was able, though these arms were barely fit for the merchants that the dwarves had claimed to be.  
  
In truth, Kíli hadn't seen such makeshift steel for decades, not since his family's days guarding caravans, and he reached out to lift one of the hammers out of curiosity. This crowbill as Bard called it was far too heavy for real speed, heavy enough that the archer's leg twinged beneath the weight.  
  
So the once-king laid the hammer back on the table while the rest of the company made their displeasure known to the bowman, Kíli finding another bit of wood to lean on until the argument was done. The rest of Thorin's companions were taking these weapons as an insult, though the once-king wasn't sure why anyone had thought that fishermen would have fine axes on hand to give away.  
  
But then again, no dwarf would be caught dead without at least one proper blade and for all the years that Durin's Folk had spent amongst the men of the Westlands, Kíli's people had always been strangely blind to certain differences in thought.  
  
Not that the archer had been any better in his youth and he sometimes wondered how he had survived his first year of kingship without causing a blood feud on accident. Some combination of luck and skill and desperation had seen the once-king safely through and those hard-won lessons served him now. Because he could read his uncle as he had read his allies and he could see the plan forming in Thorin's eyes when Bard said that the only iron-forged blades in Laketown were locked away in the city's armory.  
  
Thorin meant to steal the weapons that the bowman could not give them and Kíli must turn this plan to his own ends before the dwarf lord doomed them all.  
  
For even if the Master of Laketown was still a rotten bastard, stealing was no way for the company to gain allies and there would be enough bad blood between their kingdoms without adding treachery. Thorin's company couldn't afford to have Laketown's steel in their scabbards when Bard came to bargain, not when the man already didn't like them very much.  
  
Indeed, the bowman seemed almost desperate to leave the dwarf lord's presence, telling his guests that they must stay indoors until dark and then doing the exact opposite. To tell the truth, Kíli had no idea what made Bard run off as though a warg were on his heels, but he didn't have the strength to worry about the bowman's motives now. It was difficult enough to speak with his uncle, the once-king losing the thread of his argument whenever his leg throbbed and he couldn't be too surprised when his pleading failed to turn the dwarf lord's plan aside. Thorin would never stoop to begging when he might steal instead, not when Erebor was so loomed so large within his mind,  
  
However, if Kíli could not cajole a meeting between Thorin and the Master, then he would simply have to force one, something that was all too easy with his injury. The archer simply waited until the company had broken into Laketown's armory before allowing his leg to crumple as it wished, the resulting clatter bringing down the Master's guards before anyone could blink.  
  
This wasn't the once-king's most brilliant plan, but Kíli could only work with what he had and while he doubted many things about his uncle, he did not doubt Thorin's ability to appeal to Laketown's greed.  
  
So the archer worked on his uncle as the dwarves were dragged through the streets of Laketown, the crowd growing rapidly in their wake. It was a crowd of desperate, hungry faces, and the once-king knew that this city's troubles could serve the company now.  
  
“Tell them the truth and they will help us,” Kíli whispered urgently to Thorin, fearing that he might pass out before he could make the dwarf lord understand. “Tell them that Thorin, son of Thráin, has come to make trade and wealth flow from Erebor again. These men are clearly hungry, this town impoverished – promise them the slimmest chance at a better future and they will side with us against the Master so that we may walk free. He will have to help us or risk losing everything.”  
  
The dwarf lord looked surprised by his sister-son's words and rightfully so, but the archer didn't have time to worry about keeping his mask up anymore. The once-king would probably be dead by the time Thorin thought to question his sudden knowledge of politics and making his uncle listen was the only thing that mattered now.  
  
And for once in his life, Thorin Oakenshield actually did listen, though that might have been because other options were rather slim upon the ground.  
  
“Hold your tongue. You do not know to whom you speak,” Dwalin interrupted the Master's posturing when Thorin signaled him. “This is no common criminal; this is Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór!”  
  
The dwarf lord took over from there, greed and desperation swaying Laketown's people just as the once-king had known they would. Kíli actually drifted off a bit when Thorin started talking, the archer's panic the only thing that had been keeping him upright. But Fíli offered his brother a shoulder before he could ask for assistance, the two of them watching as their uncle wooed the crowd. Thorin had always been an inspiring speaker when he wished to be and even Bard's sudden reappearance couldn't throw him off his stride.  
  
Bard came with dire warnings of death and dragon fire – warnings that were more accurate than anyone but Kíli knew. But the bowman's opposition only made Thorin fiercer and when the argument had finished, the Master of Laketown had sided with the dwarves of Erebor.  
  
Better new allies than old enemies after all, particularly when those allies made such pretty promises. For Thorin gave his word just as the once-king wanted and in return, Laketown's Master offered the company his assistance in reaching Erebor. This aid would be far more useful than a few stolen weapons and maybe now their story had a chance of ending peacefully. Between men and dwarves at least since nothing but blood would turn Azog's hate aside.  
  
The Master proceeded to call for a celebration, the sort of grand ostentatious gesture that Kíli had always hated sitting through. This time the once-king couldn't even eat to dull his boredom since the smell of food nearly had him puking and eventually he just found himself a quiet corner where he could pass out until the dawn.  
  
\---  
  
Kíli woke slowly, dragged up from sleep by Fíli's hand on his shoulder and an insistent voice in his ears. He felt rough and sluggish, rest having done nothing to heal his injury, and yet the dwarf was mostly just grateful to have woken up at all.  
  
So the archer staggered to his feet and dressed with the rest of his companions, the weight of Kíli's borrowed armor threatening to make his leg crumple one more time. However, the dwarf thought that he had managed to hide his growing weakness from the others despite the pounding in his head and indeed, his steps were almost steady when Thorin's company made its way to the docks.  
  
There was a barge waiting for them, its deck stocked with supplies for the last part of their journey while the docks were packed with Lakemen waiting to see them off. However, when Kíli tried to follow his companions onto the boat, Thorin stopped him with an arm across his chest.  
  
“Not you,” the dwarf lord said firmly, pushing his sister-son back onto the dock. “We must travel with speed and you will slow us down.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Kíli replied, unable to comprehend such a sharp turn in his path. Kíli had to reach Erebor in order to fulfill the Valar's order; he had to reach the Lonely Mountain or die trying and his death would be here fast. “I'm coming with you.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I'm going to be there when that door is opened; when we first look upon the halls of our father, Thorin,” the once-king pleaded, growing more desperate with every word he spoke.  
  
However, his uncle would not be swayed, damning Kíli with a gentle smile and a hand on his shoulder as one might pat a stubborn dog. “Kíli, stay here. Rest. Join us when you're healed.”  
  
This was a betrayal that the once-king had not expected; despite the trials that the Valar placed before him, family had still been sacrosanct within his mind. Even in the depths of his anger, Thorin had never turned against his blood and the fact that Kíli's uncle was rejecting him with a smile only made this moment worse.  
  
Yet the dwarf could not think of anything to say, his thoughts barely coherent and his heart betrayed. He couldn't speak, not even when Óin climbed out of the barge to join him and Fíli broke the silence in his place.  
  
“Uncle, we grew up on tales of the mountain,” his brother protested. “Tales _you_ told us. You can't take that away from him!”  
  
“Fíli...”  
  
“I will carry him if I must!”  
  
“One day you will be king and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf, not even my own kin.”  
  
Kíli flinched then; he simply couldn't help it. He flinched because Thorin was right, because a king must make those hard choices and the fate of Middle Earth was not worth his wounded pride. So the dwarf could not expect his brother to keep arguing – he could not expect any of the company to argue when the most sensible choice was to leave him here – and he tried to tell Fíli that it was all right when the other dwarf met his eyes.  
  
Only the once-king couldn't get the words out, not when Mahal's warning and his own screaming thoughts were ringing in his ears. He didn't want to die here, not alone, not with strangers, his throat strangled with a need to beg for comfort that he would not release.  
  
But it seemed that Kíli did not have to, the archer as shocked as his uncle when Fíli stepped back onto the dock again.  
  
“Fíli, don't be a fool. You belong with the company,” Thorin said, grabbing his sister-son by the arm.  
  
“I belong with my brother.”  
  
The words were spoken with a finality that did not allow for second-guessing and the once-king's heart swelled near to bursting in his chest. For while Kíli had always known that his brother loved him and would die for him, this was a greater sacrifice. Fíli clearly knew that his course of action might destroy their family's last chance at glory and yet he had chosen his brother anyway.  
  
Indeed, Fíli had barely hesitated before refusing Thorin's order and Kíli could not help but wonder if this might be change enough. Maybe the Lonely Mountain would not so enrapture Thorin if his sister-sons never graced those hallowed halls, maybe that was the secret to the Valar's better path. After all, the once-king could have misinterpreted the Smith given the state of exhaustion in which Mahal had found him and surely the sight of Erebor meant he was close enough? Kíli prayed it would be as his strength finally failed him, the dwarf dropping like a puppet whose strings had all been cut.  
  
The once-king drifted in and out of consciousness, nightmares blurring into brief waking moments that slipped through the tatters of his mind. Óin looking worried and Fíli's constant presence, half a dozen tight-lipped refusals while a door shut in his face. There were monsters in the shadows, monsters that sneered at Kíli with the Master's face.  
  
Until he blinked and they sneered with Bard's instead, the dwarves suddenly standing on the bowman's porch. Four of them now for Bofur had appeared while Kíli was buried in the darkness, the archer not entirely sure whether the other dwarf was real.  
  
However, Bard seemed to see him so perhaps the once-king was not hallucinating and while Bard was not pleased to see the dwarves, he did not turn them away like all the rest. Instead he brought them inside and allowed Kíli to lay down, the change in position easing some of the archer's pain. Yet this did not stop the walls from twisting in the once-king's vision, warping into jagged shadows before his panicked eyes. They were moving; _he_ was moving, memories bleeding through the dwarf's denials until he could not say whether he was then or now.  
  
Bard looked as he remembered – tall and strong and with a great bow on his back – but he could not place these women – not women, daughters; in which life dead and gone? But Kíli was not right; his body was not right, and Fíli's hair had never been that shade of blond. Or perhaps it had and Kíli was simply mad in truth because everyone knew that time could not be spun backward no matter how much you might wish it desperately.  
  
Surely the dwarf was mad for the walls were whispering their secrets and his companions seemed to vanish before his eyes as the room shook frightfully. First Bofur then Bard disappeared from his vision while the bed beneath him rumbled like a living creature and Kíli's own breath came fitfully.  
  
The dwarf was awake but he was dreaming, dreaming of a red tide across his fingers until Bard's girls began to scream. They screamed as though they could see inside the once-king's visions; as though they could see the orcs that had slaughtered Kíli's kindred and indeed, his nightmares had grown flesh with which to rend. For a band of orcs burst through the roof without warning, their feral gaze peering from the shadows as though the dark were given eyes to see.  
  
These foes could not be real since Laketown was supposed to be a safe haven and elves never ventured this far from Mirkwood without cause. But there were elves, their spirits shining like starlight in Kíli's fractured vision, just as there were orcs as well.  
  
Because the dwarf could feel them; he could feel the fingers – clawed fingers – digging deep into his leg. It felt as though someone had jabbed him with a fire poker, the pain shocking him back into his body long enough to scream. Kíli flailed wildly, all skill lost to panic as he kicked at the monster in desperate fear and agony.  
  
But then someone was pulling the orc away, a flash of fire red driving the archer forward to stab his enemy. He did not know where the blade had come from, just that it felt right in his fingers when he shoved the point in deep. Deeper and deeper and twisting and why was he screaming? Why was his own leg burning as though he'd stabbed himself? Kíli was on the floor and an elf was kneeling above him worriedly. No. Not an elf. It was Tauriel, though she should not be here outside the forest bounds.  
  
However, the archer did not have the strength to wonder before the dark stole his vision, only two bright glowing spirits holding back the tide. Just one spirits, burning like a bonfire until Kíli had to avert his eyes. But he had no eyes here in the darkness; no breath, no warmth, no heat.  
  
Just his brother's voice tangled with some stranger hoarse from moaning, Fíli muttering that everything would be all right. Only, he didn't sound like he believed it. He sounded desperately unhappy and Kíli needed to open his eyes again. He needed to open his eyes for Fíli, but when he did agony slammed through him. Pain and hurt and sorrow arcing through his body until Tauriel laid her hands upon his leg and the world went still.  
  
  
  
_It is not Tauriel; it is Mahal's Lady looking down at him.  
  
“Peace, child. You will not die here for your task is not complete. My brethren have found the fulcrum upon which our destruction centered; Bilbo Baggins loved you and thus the future died.”  
  
“But he doesn't love me,” Kíli protests, wincing at the sting of truth and the pity in Kaminzabdûna's eyes.  
  
“You are correct. The hobbit does not love you now, but in that life he did. He loved you enough to die for you and in so doing doomed us all. So now you must ensure that Bilbo Baggins makes no such sacrifice again. If all else falters during the coming trials, my child must survive for our future can only be assured when he returns to Hobbiton. He must survive and in so doing, you might save your kin as well.”  
  
“Then we should be fine because Bilbo is in love with Thorin and he'll probably run all the way to Mirkwood if uncle threatens him again,” the archer says, unable to help a touch of bitterness. Apparently his love destroyed the world and Kíli will never be able to think of his hobbit's final moments without remembering this fact.  
  
Kaminzabdûna has tainted the once-king's memory of Bilbo when memory is all the once-king has ever had. She has taken the only solace that his battered heart was granted and it's all Kíli can do not to curse the Vala's name.  
  
Perhaps he would have risked it if darkness had not begun to pull him under, Kaminzabdûna pressing a gentle kiss to Kíli's forehead as her healing finishes.  
  
“I am sorry, child, for the pain that we have caused you, but it was necessary. The final war is coming, the war we lost is coming and the fate of Middle Earth is always worth the cost. Save my hobbit, Kíli. Save my hobbit and you will save us all.”  
  
The Vala's voice is faint now, barely more than a whisper on the edge of the once-king's hearing even as her final words seem to burn inside his mind. “Do not lose heart, my child, not so close to victory; for you may have lost your hobbit's heart within this weaving, but the soul does not forget. The soul knows many loves from many lifetimes and you need not fear the fall.”_  
  


  
Kíli opened his eyes to see Tauriel staring down at him again, her skin no longer blazing like a fire in the night. Yet even without the glow, the once-king knew that he must be hallucinating because such beauty could not be real. Not here.  
  
“You cannot be her,” the once-king whispered. “She is far away. She is far, far away from me and she walks in starlight in another world. It was just a dream.”  
  
The elfine should not be here; she should be dancing through the boughs of Mirkwood, her feet as light as raindrops and her arrows sharp as fangs. Tauriel should not be here; she should be somewhere safer before the battle came.  
  
But then the dwarf reached out a hand and he felt her, the elfine as solid as the wood beneath his back. Tauriel was here though it should be impossible and the once-king found himself fighting off the urge to weep. Indeed, Kíli wanted to damn himself for a fool because this was the person that the archer should have loved.  
  
He should have loved Tauriel instead of pining after Bilbo since she, at least, might have loved him in return. Maybe she could have healed the heart that had been so long broken if he had not imagined the spark of interest in her eyes.  
  
“Do you think she could have loved me?” Kíli murmured, speaking as much to Kaminzabdûna as to Tauriel herself. Indeed, the dwarf did not expect an answer when such a lovely dream was little more than a seed pod on the wind – fragile, delicate, and so unlikely to plant in fertile ground. Yet the once-king could not bring himself to let go either, not when the shadows were waiting for him and Tauriel's light might keep the dark at bay.  
  
However, even the elfine could not hold back the dwarf's bone-deep exhaustion and Kíli was still gripping her hand tightly when sleep dragged him down again.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for TwistedHilarity because I promised them I'd get it posted in less than a month and I have just barely delivered. It is also the end of Preface so the last 3 chapters will be something else.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me this far, the rest of this fic doesn't need nearly as much rewriting so it should go faster than this middle part. That said, if you see any glaring errors please tell me because I have rewritten Preface so often that I've kinda forgotten which version this one is.


	8. Preamble - Part I

When the once-king regained consciousness, he had been moved to the bowman's bed, his brother dozing fitfully at his side. Indeed, the archer had to wonder if he'd imagined Tauriel after all because the only hand that held his now belonged to Fíli, the other dwarf snapping to attention when his brother stirred.  
  
“Kíli! You're awake,” Fíli exclaimed, reaching out to brush the hair away from the once-king's face. “How do you feel?”  
  
“Like I just went three rounds with a cave troll,” Kíli croaked in reply, the relief in Fíli's eyes almost painful in its intensity. But when the archer tried to sit up in order to reassure his brother, he quickly decided that lying down was a much better plan. Even if the sickness was gone from his body, every muscle ached as though he'd been fighting orcs for hours and it would take some time for the dwarf to recover his full strength. Time that Kíli wasn't sure he had.  
  
He and his brother might have been stuck in Laketown, but as long as the rest of their company had managed to find Erebor’s hidden door before the last light faded then Smaug was sure to attack this city soon. Because nine dwarves and a hobbit could not hope to stop the wyrm when he chose to claim vengeance against Laketown for their trespass and Kíli did not think that Bilbo would be able to find the Arkenstone without disturbing the dragon's rest.  
  
That jewel had too much weight in history; too much blood and too many tears had been spilled for it to be claimed so easily. No, the dragon would wake and while Bilbo might delay him with wit and riddles, such distractions could not hope to keep Smaug interested for long.  
  
Smaug would want blood and Laketown must be ready to answer; Bard must be ready to face down the wyrm for once and all.  
  
But Kíli did not see the bowman when he looked around the room and it's not as though this house held much space to hide. Instead the dwarf saw only his companions – Óin and Bofur rushing over when Fíli helped him to sit up - and Bard's children, looking much too young for the trial they were about to face.  
  
If it had been strange to see Legolas again, it was positively baffling to look at Bain now that Kíli's mind was clear, his former ally suddenly a boy instead of the king that he had been. In the dwarf's first lifetime, he had never met Bard's son as a child, only after the Battle of the Five Armies had turned that boy into a man. Yet the once-king recognized something of his old friend in this Bain's eyes. For the young man's gaze held courage if not experience, courage and a fierce determination to keep his sisters safe.  
  
However, no amount of bravery would let Bain kill the dragon – heroic charges tended to be final ones when fire drakes were involved – and Laketown's current Master would not be able keep his people safe. From what Kíli had seen of _him_ , he would not even try.  
  
Thus if the Lakemen were to survive, they would need an archer and an arrow, and while Kíli was the former, he had yet to see the latter in this life. Hear of it, yes, but the dwarf did not know where Bard could be keeping such a weapon and even if the once-king had carried a Black Arrow in his quiver, he could not trust himself to strike Smaug true right now.  
  
Not when his arms were still shaky and his vision blurry around the edges, the echoes of his nightmares running through his head. Kíli had been close to death before Kaminzabdûna saved him, his mind warping the very world he saw, and without the Vala's interference, he would have crossed that line.  
  
The Vala's help and Tauriel's, the elfine just now ducking back through the bowman's door. Indeed, it seemed that the captain had not been another hallucination, for while she still looked out of place amidst the grime and grunge of Laketown, a burst of spring in green and fire, Kíli was recovered enough not to doubt his eyes again.  
  
He did not know how the elfine had come to be here or what had allowed her to channel Kaminzabdûna's power, but the once-king was glad to see her all the same. If nothing else, the captain was a skilled archer and if Bard did not return in time to face the dragon, perhaps Tauriel could kill the beast instead. Surely an elvish arrow would be able to pierce Smaug's hide where those of men would fail them and those of dwarves were out of reach right now.  
  
“There is no sign of your father, children. I do not know where he has gone,” the elf told Bain softly, grabbing the young man's arm when he started toward the door. “It is not safe for younglings now. I am sure that your father will return when he is able and until then you must see to your sisters in his stead.”  
  
Although he did not look happy about Tauriel's words, the boy could not deny the truth she spoke. So Bain nodded shortly, squaring his shoulders and walking over to Sigrid and Tilda to offer the little comfort that he could. The girls were huddled on the dwelling's other bed since there wasn't anywhere else to sit right now. For while Kíli's companions had clearly tried to put the bowman's house back in some semblance of order while the archer was unconscious, Bard's benches had been reduced to kindling when the orcs attacked. That, at least, had not been part of Kíli's fevered visions given the holes in the roof and the sword marks on the walls and the once-king was thankful that no one appeared to have been injured in that fight.  
  
He meant to ask Tauriel about Smaug then and whether her sharp eyes had seen the fire drake flying toward them as the archer feared. But before Kíli could speak, the elfine met his eyes and the spark in her gaze drove the dragon from his mind.  
  
For she would surely have told them if they needed to flee this instant and Kíli had to deal with Tauriel right now. Indeed, the matter appeared to be quite urgent judging by her expression, though the once-king had never before known an elf whose every emotion could be read so clearly in her eyes.  
  
“Give us a minute,” he muttered, nudging his brother with his elbow until Fíli got the hint. He grabbed Óin and Bofur by the arm, leading them away to discuss their current options even as Tauriel stepped forward to take their place at Kíli's side.  
  
“Master dwarf, you are looking much better now,” the elfine said, settling lightly on the edge of the bed. “I am glad to see you well.”  
  
“I believe I owe you my life, my lady; I am in your debt,” Kíli replied, bowing his head in thanks as best he could. Although his gratitude was sincere, the words were also meant to buy him time to think. For his attempt to win Tauriel over in Mirkwood had clearly been more successful than he'd realized and now the once-king had to face the consequences of offering his heart. Kíli needed to tell the elfine that he could not be her future before the light in her eyes grew any stronger and his own hopeless longing was spread to someone else as well.  
  
However, before Kíli could decide how to approach that conversation, Tauriel spoke again, “I have been thinking about the words that you said earlier, when you spoke of love and starlight and the unlikeliest of dreams.”  
  
She smiled then, soft and pale and achingly sweet in her innocence and she must be truly young amongst her people to show her heart like this. The once-king was used to elves being cold and silent, their expressions as much armor as that they wore upon their skin, and yet Tauriel’s openness only made this whole thing worse.  
  
 _Oh, shit. Blast and thunder, but I never meant for this. I only meant to play on her attraction, maybe earn some sympathy. What could I have said to make her look at me like this?_ the dwarf thought with a flash of panic as he wracked his memory. The last few hours were little more than a blur of pain and delirium, but Kíli thought that he might have been rambling about love and loss before Kaminzabdûna came to him.  
  
“I'm afraid I do not remember much before you healed me,” the once-king said, hoping he still had a chance to salvage this. Surely she could not love him already, not when the two of them had only had one true conversation, and yet, Kíli knew exactly how fickle hearts could be.  
  
“Shall I tell you then, young Kíli? You were quite poetic near the end.” Tauriel's tone was amused, but her gaze was far too fond for only friendship, even if the elfine didn't seem to notice what her eyes were telling him. Kíli knew – he knew pining as well as anyone – and that knowledge was enough to make him wonder if he should bite his tongue instead of speaking as he'd meant to do.  
  
 _What point is there in telling her? Love cannot be swayed once it is given and I would only hurt her with the truth. What good is there in revealing that my heart longs for another when Bilbo is lost to me, the hobbit that I love walking Middle Earth no more?_  
  
It's not as though telling the elfine would make Bilbo remember feelings from another lifetime, feelings that Kíli would then be forced to deny. Because Kaminzabdûna had confirmed the dearest wish of the once-king's heart even as she broke it – his hobbit had loved him and that love had been wrong.  
  
Somehow that love had caused the future which still haunted Kíli, the death and blood and grief that had overwhelmed their world, and the dwarf would pay the price demanded not to see those days again. He would protect Bilbo; he would ensure that the hobbit was safe and expect nothing in return.  
  
Indeed, Kíli had already realized that he must let their burglar go; he had realized this in a pain-filled haze on Esgaroth and so Mahal's Lady had only confirmed what he had known. And yet, Kaminzabdûna had also hinted that his tale need not end in heartbreak so perhaps Tauriel was his chance for happiness. After all, if the Valar had reshaped the world, raising those who had been dead and naming those forgotten, why should the dwarf not be remade as well? No dwarrow had ever loved more than once in a lifetime, but Kíli had died many weeks ago.  
  
Thus the once-king decided to consign his past love to the silence, to bury those feelings with the secrets that he knew he'd never speak. This was Kíli's second chance at everything and he was determined not waste it by making the same mistakes again.  
  
If the dwarf had love then he would speak it, if he had dreams then he would chase them, and once Thorin was crowned king of Erebor, he wanted to walk down roads untraveled instead of those he knew. The once-king wanted to visit the parts of Middle Earth that held no memories of pain and heartbreak; he wanted to see the rolling plains of Rohan, the grand halls of Dáin's people and the white stones of Gondor that had been shaped by dwarven hands. Kíli wanted to walk under the ancient trees of Lothlórien with someone who could understand their language and he wanted to teach someone about the music that the mountains sang.  
  
So the dwarf did not turn Tauriel away as he had originally intended, instead reaching out to take the elfine's hand once more. “Whatever I said, I am sure that I meant it. You inspire verse in me.”  
  
Indeed, this was true enough and if Kíli's heart could not yet match his words, the archer would convince the contrary organ to do his bidding soon enough. Because Tauriel was beautiful: strong and lithe and so very deadly and if the dwarf could not find it in himself to love her at least a little, then he might as well be stone instead of flesh.  
  
Though it seemed that it was the elfine's turn to be uncertain, for while she did not refuse the archer's gesture, she quickly turned their conversation toward more practical concerns than love and poetry. Tauriel told the once-king of everything that he had missed while he was injured: Bard's unexplained absence, the ambush by an orc pack, and the ever increasing rumbling from the slopes of Erebor.  
  
“It worries me,” Tauriel admitted, speaking softly so that the bowman's children could not hear. “I fear your friends may have wakened Smaug the Terrible and while I do not doubt their bravery, it will take more than bravery to kill that beast.”  
  
“Then we must be ready,” Kíli answered. “We are not without courage of our own and surely one of your arrows must be able to pierce the dragon's hide?”  
  
But the captain squashed this hope with a small shake of her head, “The skills of my kin lie in wood and cloth, not metal, and while my arrows are sharp enough for spiders or orcs, they cannot bring down a fire drake. Perhaps the great elven smiths of the First Age could have forged the sort of weapon that we require, but their treasures are long scattered and I have never earned the right to carry those few in Thranduil's hall. No, Master Kíli, if Smaug comes then we must flee with all the rest.”  
  
The dwarf was not heartened by this answer, for if Tauriel would not try and he was not able then their future must rely on Bard again. Bard who still had not returned and Kíli could not believe that the bowman would abandon his children if he had any other choice.  
  
However, if the once-king could not change Laketown's future then he would have to have faith instead; faith that Bard would rise to the challenge as he had in the past. This must be the bowman's trial, the task that would prove Girion's heir had a right to kingship in his people's eyes. Dale would need a strong king to survive.  
  
So the dwarf did not try to convince Tauriel any further. Instead, he nodded his head in reluctant agreement before imploring, “Just Kíli, please, my lady. I may be a prince of Erebor but I am not the master of anything.”  
  
He did not like being named as master, sir or any such title, not when all he could remember was how deeply he had failed his people after Sauron's hammer fell. He might have been a king, but a true king should have found a way to save them and so Kíli could not believe that he was worthy of the name. Even now, saving his people would not erase the weight of his past failures, not as long as those memories still lived behind his eyes.  
  
But he could not have explained any of this to Tauriel without sounding crazy so he was thankful when she did not question him. She simply smiled again, that same amused half-smile with which she had met all of his flirting, and replied, “If you wish it, Kíli. But you must then call me Tauriel; for if you are no master then I am no lady as elves would title me.”  
  
“You are a lady to me, Tauriel, and I thank you for the honor you bestow,” the once-king replied with a smile of his own. However, before he could say anything further, their conversation was interrupted by the ringing clamor of Laketown's warning bells.  
  
In an instant, the elfine was gone from his side, stepping back out onto the streets of the city to discover what the commotion was about. Though there was only one thing in these lands which could roar like that and indeed, Tauriel’s face was grim when she returned.  
  
“We have no time; we must leave,” the captain said, the fear in her eyes spurring the dwarves into a flurry of motion as they rushed to pack.  
  
“Get him up,” Bofur said, moving to help Kíli to his feet while Óin gathered what remained of their supplies. They would leave behind the Master's borrowed armor and take only the best of their weapons for man-crafted steel would not protect them from the flames. It would only weigh them down and they must travel with speed if they were to escape.  
  
“Come on brother,” Fíli urged, grabbing hold of the archer's arm as though he were still a dwarrowling. Sweet yes, but also damn annoying, for while standing made his leg twinge with the echo of agony, the once-king did not need to be fussed over with such intensity. He could take care of himself and his brother needed to look to his own safety when Smaug attacked. Kíli would not see him injured due to carelessness.  
  
However, a growled, “I'm fine; I can walk,” made Fíli back off slightly, the other dwarf falling in at the archer's shoulder instead of trying to lead him by the hand. That was better – that was more like equals – and the once-king could face anything with his brother at his side.  
  
“We're not leaving, not without our father,” Bain protested when Tauriel urged his sisters to be faster in their packing, the boy's loyalty to his sire to be commended under any other circumstance.  
  
But they could not linger when to stay risked dragon fire and Tauriel put a stop to Bain's hesitation with a pointed, “If you stay here, your sisters will die. Is that what your father would want?”  
  
The young man could hardly answer the captain's question with assent so their small group was soon making its way to the dock beneath Bard's house, carefully climbing into the family's boat and casting off. Tauriel took the pole since the elfine was far more comfortable on the water than any of the dwarrows and Bain was not strong enough to push such an overloaded boat. Though it was the boy's knowledge of these waters that would guide their group to safety amidst the chaos of the night.  
  
He directed Tauriel toward the larger channels that were less likely to be blocked by wood and fire, the city igniting like dry tinder as Smaug attacked. Kíli could see the flames rising higher with the dragon's every roar; men, women, and children running to and fro in terror.  
  
While the dwarf could hardly blame the Lakemen for their panic, only those who managed to keep their heads would have a chance of surviving now. They needed a strong leader to quell their panic but the Master of Laketown had always cared more about his own life than any other and it would not surprise Kíli if that man had abandoned his post at the first clang of the bell.  
  
Indeed, the dwarf was soon proved correct when their boat collided with the Master's on one of Laketown's main canals. The man was cursing indiscriminately, ordering his guards to row faster even as what looked like half Laketown's treasury spilled from his grand barge.  
  
The sight made Kíli's blood boil, the archer baring his teeth in a growl as the Master wept more for his gold than the city at his back. The dwarf wanted to punish this man for his cowardice, for leaving his people to be slaughtered by the dragon without the slightest hint of regret. However, before the once-king could act on such violent impulse, the Master's guards managed to push their boats apart. So Kíli could only watch as Laketown's erstwhile leader disappeared into the smoke upon the water, hoping that the man would receive justice for his crimes.  
  
Although, in truth, the dwarves were no better than the Master in this moment, their boat never stopping to offer aid or help. Not that their group could have done much with the boat already over laden, but Kíli found it difficult to turn away from the need before his eyes.  
  
Smaug’s attack might have been a distant tragedy in his former lifetime, but the once-king lived it now and every scream was a dagger to his heart. Every plea, every shout made his eyes sting with sorrow and yet the screams were nothing compared to the scent of roasting flesh when the dragon breathed destruction on this town. It coated Kíli's lungs, smoke and soot threatening to choke him as fiercely as his own impotent rage.  
  
Because nothing burned like dragon fire; there was nothing either so hot nor so vicious and Laketown had been doomed as soon as the first house went up. This was simple fact and no amount of wishing would make it otherwise. Indeed, Bard might be destined to slay the dragon, but his city was lost to fire and those few who lived to see the dawn would surely be knocking at Thorin's door soon enough.  
  
Assuming, of course, that the dwarf lord and his companions had not been killed by Smaug already and would be waiting in the mountain when the other dwarves arrived. However, while Kíli wasn't sure what they would find when they reached Erebor – if they reached it – he could not believe that everyone had died.  
  
Kaminzabdûna had promised that his kin might still be saved and the Vala would not have said that if they'd breathed no more. So the rest of Thorin's company must be alive and well within the Lonely Mountain and once they were reunited, Kíli should have several days to turn their future toward the light.  
  
But first he must survive Smaug's vengeance – first the drake must die – and the once-king was beginning to wonder if his faith in Bard had been misplaced when he saw the man at last. The bowman was standing upon the city's high watch tower with his longbow in his hand and Kíli was sure that Girion's descendant would soon fulfill his destiny. Though Bard looked tiny compared to the fire drake and if the archer had ever doubted his ally’s courage, he did not doubt it now.  
  
Nor could he doubt Bard's skill with his chosen weapon as the bowman's arrow flew straight and true toward its target and yet Smaug refused to fall. _Where is his Black Arrow?_ the once-king wondered, watching Bard's missile bounce and shatter against the dragon's hide. In truth, Smaug hardly seemed to notice the man's attempt to slay him as he flew over Laketown, the wyrm spreading death and fire in his wake.  
  
So while Kíli had believed that Bard's victory was destined, perhaps the Valar could only give the man his chance. Perhaps Smaug would not be slain in Laketown and the once-king would have to find another way to bring the dragon down. Some alternative that he hadn't thought of before now.  
  
However, the archer had barely begun to consider this new problem before the ringing of Laketown's bell suddenly cut off and his eyes were drawn to Bard again. Indeed, Kíli was not the only one who had noticed the sudden lack of clamor and looked upward, the bowman's children finally realizing just where their father was.  
  
Bain and his sisters shouted for the bowman, though their screams were not loud enough for Bard to hear. Kíli heard them and the pain in their voices was a sharp reminder that Bard's failure would mean more than trouble for the once-king – it would mean grief and sorrow and the loss of family – and if the bowman's children must watch as they were orphaned, they deserved some acknowledgment of their father's courage to help them carry on.  
  
So when Bard's next arrow struck Smaug's chest, the archer shouted, “He hit it! He hit the dragon!” loud enough for everyone to hear. Tilda even smiled slightly, the bowman's youngest comforted more easily than her siblings since the child still believed that heroes always won.  
  
But even as Kíli spoke, Tauriel shook her head in denial of the hope that he had raised. “No-”  
  
“He did! He hit his mark, I saw!” the once-king interrupted, trying to signal her to silence before she made Bard's children give into despair.  
  
However, the captain ignored his pleas or did not understand them, elves apparently unwilling to speak a soothing lie. Instead Tauriel replied with the truth that Kíli had been trying not to notice, the once-king slumping back down in the boat as she announced, “His arrows cannot pierce its hide; I fear that nothing will.”  
  
Yet perhaps the captain's words were not meant for Kíli because Bain suddenly sat up as though he'd been bitten and leaped out of the boat before anyone could react. The dwarves shouted to him and if the archer had been in better health then he would have tried to follow, but as it was, the boy disappeared into the smoke too quickly and Tauriel would not turn back.  
  
They could not turn back; she was right in this as well, but it still ached to think that Bain might never take the crown. Kíli had liked Bain, the man had wisdom where his father had sometimes leaned toward pigheaded stubbornness, and the once-king did not wish to see the reign of Girion's line die out.  
  
So the dwarf watched Bard's struggle and prayed for a miracle until the burning city blocked the bowman from his sight. The man would need a miracle without the Black Arrow in his quiver, but even if he did not find it, Kíli must still do his best to survive. He concentrated on keeping the boat steady through increasingly rough waters, ducking flaming debris and helping Fíli push driftwood from their path.  
  
The once-king's hands were not the only thing kept busy, his mind cataloging all his options should the bowman fail. For their boat would soon reach more open water and Kíli was torn between racing to Erebor to warn his uncle and trying to reach Thranduil since he doubted that Smaug would give him time enough for both.  
  
 _If Bard does not have a Black Arrow then there might be something in the vaults of Erebor that would serve as a replacement and Tauriel should be able to make the shot even if I cannot trust myself. But if the vaults are empty, fifty elven archers would be far more useful and surely Thranduil might be convinced to help now that Smaug is literally at his kingdom's door?_  
  
It was a difficult decision, the once-king weighing two uncertain fates. But thankfully Kíli had not yet been forced to choose between them when Bard found the miracle that he had been praying for.  
  
A deafening shriek sounded in the night, the once-king looking back toward the watch tower just as Smaug leaped into the air. At first Kíli feared that Bard had been defeated, but it was not the bowman who had been wounded mortally. For the wyrm's ascent was awkward compared to the sleek grace that he had shown in his attack, Smaug's fire dimming even as he climbed.  
  
Soon the harsh pull of gravity was too much for the drake's failing strength and he plummeted back to earth with a thunderous crash. The impact of Smaug's body destroyed what little of Laketown his rampage had left standing and the resulting wave pushed the dwarves' boat most of the way to shore.  
  
By now the first touch of dawn was visible on the horizon, the sun sweeping over Esgaroth as though to wash the water clean. But there was no cleaning this, no way to erase what had happened; one could only try to move forward through the pain.  
  
So the men and women of Laketown slowly struggled to the bank, the survivors dragging supplies and bodies from the water even as they mourned the ones they'd lost. The dwarves helped as best they could while Tauriel looked after Sigrid and Tilda but Kíli knew they could not stay here long.  
  
They could not stay when the Lakemen would need someone on whom to lay their sorrow and the remaining members of Thorin's company would the easiest to blame. The once-king remembered well how Bard and his allies had looked upon the dwarves with hate when they'd besieged the mountain, grief and greed intermingled in their eyes. The fishermen might not have skill or weapons, but they had numbers, and Kíli's small party was far too vulnerable.  
  
Thus the archer did not protest when Fíli, Óin and Bofur began to push their boat back into the water, though his heart ached with guilt to leave. For Kíli had watched over the men of Dale as fiercely as he had watched over his own people by the time his story ended and it did not feel right to abandon them.  
  
 _They must take care of each other for the moment,_ the once-king thought, reminding himself that his company and its burglar were the priority for now. _For all his faults, Bard always treated his subjects fairly and he will not leave them out in the cold if he survived. No, they will be all right without me for the moment and speaking with my uncle is more important now. I must warn him of the army that is coming so that he looks more kindly on our allies and remind him of his promise so that the Lakemen might find safety within the walls of Erebor._  
  
However, if Kíli must leave then he would not do it without a word to the elfine with whom he hoped to build a future once this whole mess was done. She was standing on the shore with Bard's daughters, the sorrow in her eyes growing deeper with every dead man found, and the dwarf was certain that her bleeding heart would be what won his over in the end.  
  
“Tauriel,” Kíli called softly, the elf turning at the sound of her name.  
  
When she saw the archer she walked to the shore to meet him, though her smile was far more reserved than it had been in the privacy of Bard's home. Perhaps she was having second thoughts now that reality had burst upon them and indeed the dwarf could almost feel her pulling away. But while it might be selfish of him, the once-king would not let her go that easily, not when he had seen the truth of her feelings in her eyes.  
  
So Kíli ignored his brother's calls and kept his gaze on Tauriel until she ducked her head, “They are your people; you must go.”  
  
She was going to let him leave without even trying, bowing to the hatred between their kindred and what their kings believed. However, the dwarf had lost everyone whom he loved once already; he had lived and died and lived again and he had no more patience for propriety.  
  
“Come with me,” Kíli asked, stopping the elfine before she could walk away. “I know how I feel and I am not afraid. You make me feel alive.”  
  
Every word was true even though such a declaration would have seemed like madness even a few short days ago. But while the once-king would never forget his Bilbo – could not forgot him – Tauriel had found her way inside his walls somehow. She made him think of the future instead of the past; she made him think that he could love her and Mahal knew that Kíli could use such hope right now.  
  
Yet even though she was clearly distressed at their parting, the elfine shook her head and murmured, “I cannot.”  
  
She was not willing to take that leap, not yet ready to follow where her heart's madness led. Maybe she sensed the tear in Kíli's spirit but he could not believe that his love was less sincere for being split across two lives. Besides, the archer had always been reckless and while ruling Erebor had taught him to consider the consequences of his actions, he would never be that sort of dwarf at heart.  
  
“Tauriel, amrâlimê,” Kíli said as he stepped closer, wanting her to know where he stood in case this all went wrong. She deserved better than to wonder as he had done about his Bilbo, even if she chose to follow her duty in the end.  
  
Tauriel's brows rose when he spoke, joy and disbelief warring in those lovely emerald eyes. Indeed, her whispered, “I don't know what that means,” was belied by the way she leaned toward the archer as though she could not help herself.  
  
“I think you do,” the dwarf murmured in answer, reaching out to take the elfine's hand. She was so close, so close that he would barely have to tilt his head to kiss her and there was nothing that he wanted more right now.  
  
But before he could press their lips together, Tauriel stiffened suddenly. She pulled away from him, a mask of formality dropping down across her features, and the once-king hadn't known that losing her smile would bother him so much. However, the reason behind the change became clear when Tauriel spoke a greeting and the dwarf spied Mirkwood's prince watching them from further up the bank.  
  
 _You always did have awful timing, Legolas,_ Kíli thought with a sigh, knowing that his chance was gone. The captain would never do anything improper in front of her prince and the dwarf could not blame her when the weight of duty lay so heavy on his back.  
  
So the once-king turned to go before Tauriel could leave him, that apologetic smile sending him on his way as quickly as any true farewell.  
  
Yet the dwarf had only taken a few steps before he stopped again. He could not let this be their last memory of each other in case the coming battle went even worse this time. Instead Kíli turned back, walking up to the elfine and taking her by the hand.  
  
“Keep it. As a promise,” the archer murmured, placing Kaminzabdûna's Runestone in the captain's palm. _'Return to me,'_ it said; _'Return to me,'_ it ordered, and he would do his best to fulfill that blessed command. For surely he could complete his Lady's task without destroying his own chance at happiness, and even if that hope proved futile, the once-king had to try.  
  
Token given, Kíli finally surrendered to his brother's shouting, climbing on board the boat and taking the paddle that Fíli handed him. Though the dwarf could not leave without one glance back at Tauriel, fixing the sight of the elfine in his mind to keep him strong.  
  
He would need strength and conviction to persuade his uncle and his own was wearing thin. Indeed, Kíli could not help a shudder when their company finally reached the mountain and he looked upon the gates of Erebor for the first time since he had died. Seeing the destruction that Smaug had caused with his exit was like seeing a friend who had fallen on hard times, the halls that he had spent so long rebuilding now cracked and broken once again. The work of a lifetime and it suddenly meant nothing, the once-king's only legacy erased. But Erebor could be restored as long as Durin's Folk survived and the mountain would be happier with her rightful ruler crowned.  
  
So Kíli banished his ghosts to memory and followed the other dwarves as they ran into the mountain, Bofur calling out for his kindred desperately. The miner's voice echoed strangely, the halls giving only silence and the sound of footsteps in the dust.  
  
However, when the dwarves started down the stairs toward the lower levels, they finally heard someone shouting back. It was Bilbo, the hobbit's voice like music to the once-king's ears. Kíli was pleased to know that their burglar had escaped the dragon without damage – he would have been pleased even if Kaminzabdûna had not made the hobbit's safety his first priority.  
  
But as Bilbo drew closer, the archer realized that his voice held no joy at their reunion and he offered no welcome here. Indeed, there was only worry etched across the burglar's features when he met them in the corridor, a sick feeling growing in Kíli's chest as Bilbo panted, “You need to leave. We _all_ need to leave.”  
  
“We only just got here,” Bofur replied, his confusion mirrored in his companions' eyes. All but Kíli, who did not need to hear their burglar's explanation to know exactly what was wrong. It was Thorin, of course it was Thorin, and his uncle must be in a fine temper to make Bilbo look like that.  
  
Indeed, the hobbit sounded both frustrated and uneasy when he started to explain, “I've tried talking to him, but he won't listen.”  
  
“What do you mean, laddie?”  
  
“Thorin! Thorin. Thorin,” Bilbo muttered frantically. “He's been down there for days; he doesn't sleep, he barely eats. He's not been himself, not at all. It's this- It's this place. I think a sickness lies on it.”  
  
“Sickness? What kind of sickness?” the archer asked, looking over at their hobbit in concern. The only ailments that should be troubling Thorin now were the sins of pride and avarice, the dwarf lord’s stubbornness making him refuse to bargain even though outnumbered and outmatched.  
  
But even as he asked the question, Kíli remembered a discussion he'd had with Balin earlier in their journey, one that had not made much sense at the time. The once-king had been curious about the changes in his people's history after hearing of Azanulbizar and his old Runemaster had been the best dwarf to ask.  
  
Indeed, Balin had been happy to talk, telling the archer everything that he knew about Erebor’s glory days. The old dwarf had spoken much of Thrór, the beginning of his reign and the darker days before Smaug's attack, and he had mentioned a strange gold-madness that lay upon the dwarf king's mind. At the time Kíli had assumed this dragon-sickness was simply a poetic turn for his great-grandfather's fierce love of gold and treasure, but perhaps Balin had been describing something far more serious.  
  
Perhaps Thorin was mad in truth, a sickness of the mind to blame for the suspicion and hatred that Kíli had observed in this new timeline. Although, in all honestly, some kind of dragon-madness might go a long way toward explaining Thorin's actions in the once-king's first life as well.  
  
Such a sickness was plausible but worrying since madness did not often bend to reason and the archer's plan depended on his uncle's sanity.  
  
However, before Kíli could confirm that Bilbo was truly describing some fell lunacy, his brother suddenly darted down the stairs. The prince ignored their burglar's warning and his brother's cries to wait, the others having no choice but to follow him instead. Fíli led them deeper and deeper into the mountain until he rounded a corner and stopped short, looking down from the stairs onto a sea of shining gold.  
  
There seemed to be more of it than the once-king remembered and in the middle of this treasure stood his uncle, Thorin's eyes shining all the brighter for the shadows on his face. He did indeed look ill, the greed and possessiveness that Kíli remembered enhanced ten-fold in his expression, and the archer didn’t know if he would be able to make his uncle see reason now.  
  
But dragon-sickness or not, Kíli still had to try to broker peace as he had planned. If Thorin agreed to give Bard and Thranduil a portion of his treasure then there would be no need for Bilbo to steal the Arkenstone and be banished from Erebor. He could remain safe within the mountain until the Battle of the Five Armies had ended and he was free to go back to Hobbiton as Kaminzabdûna asked. The deal with Laketown should be covered by his uncle's promise – Kíli might have been half-dead with fever, but he remembered Thorin's vow – and while Thranduil deserved nothing, it's not as though the Lonely Mountain did not have gold to spare.  
  
Given what the once-king was seeing here, Erebor still held far more treasure than any hundred dwarves could spend. Kíli certainly hadn't managed to empty the vaults during the decades his reign and Durin knew he'd made mistakes along the way. There was gold enough here to paint the mountain if Thorin so desired and yet the archer had a sinking feeling that the size of Erebor's treasury did not matter now.  
  
Because a dragon's hoard was never finished and if Thorin's need was ownership, then the only choice was more. Indeed, the dwarf lord's expression showed no satisfaction, only hunger, and when he spoke, his voice echoed in dark whispers off the walls.  
  
“Gold. Gold beyond measure, beyond sorrow and grief,” Thorin said almost to himself before looking up at his companions and spreading his arms wide. “Behold the great treasure hoard of Thrór.”  
  
Kíli's uncle smiled then, a fey possessive smile that made the once-king flinch back a step. But Thorin didn't seem to notice the unease of his kindred, the dwarf lord throwing a shining object into the air to land in Fíli's hands. It was a gemstone, a ruby as red as the blood that would be spilled for this treasure, and the archer couldn't deny that there was something fitting in his uncle's choice. Something fitting and disturbing, Kíli's skin crawling when Thorin spoke once more, “Welcome my sister-sons to the kingdom of Erebor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should be getting 1 chapter about every two weeks now until this fic is done. I finally finished my rewrite, and gained about 20k in the process, so Preamble is also going to be 4 parts instead of 3 as I'd originally thought.


	9. Preamble - Part II

Despite his uncle's rather unsettling greeting, the once-king refused to let himself give into despair. Thorin might be sick, but that did not necessarily mean Kíli had laid his plans for naught. After all, where there was life, there was hope, and the archer would reserve judgment until he could discover more about this so-called dragon-madness that held the dwarf lord's heart.  
  
Indeed, Kíli would never know if Thorin could be cured unless he tried it and all things considered, his chances could have been much worse than this. The once-king could have been trying to broker peace while fighting off a dragon if Bard's attempt to kill the beast had failed. Or the dwarf might have been alone, his companions already dead or injured before he reached the mountain, and thus Kaminzabdûna's promise proved a lie.  
  
Compared to those other paths, this one was not so difficult. This one only required a bit of cunning and the wisdom to know whether subtlety or brute force would be more effective in swaying Thorin's mind.  
  
So for now the once-king stayed silent as his uncle led Fíli and the others through the twisting halls of Erebor, observing the dwarf lord in conversation rather than joining in, and what he saw was actually heartening.  
  
The power that held Thorin's mind had not destroyed him, only buried his better nature beneath a mask of avarice, and that mask was not complete. In one breath, Kíli's uncle boasted of the Lonely Mountain's wealth and in the next, he asked after the archer's injury, his expression wavering between a brooding pride and something like normality.  
  
Wherever this gold-madness came from – some weakness within the hearts of Durin's children or a dark echo of Smaug's time within the mountain – the once-king believed that it could still be broken now. Kíli simply needed to discover the key to Thorin's better nature, whether it be honor, threat, family or something still unknown. Thus a combination of the archer's knowledge, a raven's warning, and the pleas of the dwarf's companions should serve his purpose well.  
  
 _Perhaps Balin will have some ideas,_ the once-king thought. _If Thrór truly carried a similar affliction before he died then someone must have tried to heal his mind..._  
  
With this thought to bolster him, Kíli was feeling almost cheerful by the time Thorin led his small group to the small hall where the rest of their companions had set up camp the night before, and the sight of his friends put a true smile on the archer's face. For it seemed that all of the dwarves had survived Smaug's awakening with nothing more than scrapes and bruises, and the joy of their reunion pushed Kíli's worries to the back of his mind.  
  
Indeed, the once-king should have days yet before Bard and Thranduil came to call upon the mountain – plenty of time to set Thorin on a better path – and he had learned to appreciate those brief moments of joy before more grief arrived.  
  
So the archer hugged each of his companions in turn, the other dwarves just as happy to see that he was recovered as he was to see them well. Soon the dwarves were trading stories of their recent trials, Fíli and Bofur bringing Smaug's attack on the Lakemen to life in lurid detail while their companions listened on aghast.  
  
Many of them clearly felt guilty about the damage done to Laketown, their burglar most of all, and when Balin began to tell their side of the story, Kíli understood. Because Thorin's company had tried to kill the dragon, Balin's story making Fíli and Bofur's seem almost boring in comparison.  
  
Daring escapes, wild rides, liquid gold and fire – the only thing Thorin's plan had been lacking was rationality. Truthfully, the archer wasn’t sure why his uncle had believed that molten metal would kill a fire drake, but he had to admire the dwarf lord's tenacity. At least Thorin had made an attempt to slay his enemy and even if that attempt had been borne from dragon-sickness, there was still honor in the fight. There was certainly more honor in trying than there was in running as Kíli and his companions had been forced to do.  
  
But perhaps the once-king had lived through the destruction of Laketown so that he could speak more eloquently in their favor now.  
  
“Thorin, I- I am worried about Bard's people,” Kíli began, choosing to speak of the bowman as though he were already the king of men again so that his uncle would not be taken by surprise when he came to negotiate. Let Thorin think of Bard and Laketown as one unit and thus his vow as something that must still be upheld.  
  
“What of them, Kíli?” Thorin replied impatiently, his eyes gleaming with a golden light once more.  
  
“Smaug destroyed their city, uncle, and winter is coming,” the once-king persisted. “They will not last long on what few supplies they have.”  
  
“That is not my concern.”  
  
“But we have so much treasure an-”  
  
“Treasure, yes. I must find the Arkenstone,” the dwarf lord muttered before whirling on his watching company. “ **FIND THE ARKENSTONE!!** ”  
  
 _Well that was a failure,_ the archer thought, joining the other dwarves as they scrambled to obey his uncle's shout. He hadn't even managed to remind Thorin of his promise before the dragon-sickness overtook him, sympathy clearly the wrong approach to take.  
  
However, there were others and even wracked with gold-madness, the dwarf lord should not be able to ignore an army of orcs marching toward his door.  
  
Which meant it was time to find a raven, Kíli slipping away from his companions after they reached the heart of Erebor's treasury and spread out to search. The once-king sought wisdom instead of treasure, climbing to the highest levels of the mountain where Erebor's ravens lived.  
  
He was pleased to find that many of Roäc's children had already returned to the Lonely Mountain, though the great bird himself was absent from his nest. In another life, Roäc had brought news of Smaug's demise to the King Under the Mountain and while that was no longer necessary, Kíli spared a thought to the raven's health before turning to his task. These birds did not know the once-king as his own ravens had and they did not speak so clearly, but they recognized his birthright and it didn't take long for him to convince one young raven to scout the western plains.  
  
The orcs must be on the move already if they were going to reach the Lonely Mountain in a few days' time and an army would not be able to hide from the raven's eyes. When the bird returned, Kíli should have proof that he could bring to his uncle – proof that even Thorin should not be able to deny.  
  
Until then the archer would do his best to weaken the dwarf lord's dragon-sickness so that Thorin might greet his allies with something like diplomacy.  
  
 _Although, speaking of allies, I don't need to wait on uncle to start sending messengers_. While Kíli did not have the authority to summon the other dwarven kingdoms, he could still warn Dáin that he might be needed shortly so that the dwarf lord would not be caught unawares. So too could the once-king contact Beorn and the eagles for their assistance and it would be no ill thing if these allies arrived sooner than they had in the past.  
  
Thus the archer sent out his ravens, waiting until they disappeared from sight before rejoining his companions in the treasure hall where the other dwarves were still searching for the Arkenstone. As though anyone could find one gem amidst a sea of treasure without a great deal of luck to guide his hands.  
  
No, the Arkenstone would be found or not by fate alone and Kíli honestly didn't care if that damn jewel ever saw the light again. He had far more important things than treasure on his mind.  
  
“It truly is beautiful,” the once-king said, walking up next to Thorin where he was standing on a hill of gold. His uncle wasn't searching with the others; the dwarf lord was watching his companions closely, ready to swoop down if anyone uncovered so much as a hint of glowing light.  
  
Indeed, Thorin was so focused on his treasure that he didn't seem to hear the archer's statement, ignoring Kíli entirely until he reached out to nudge the dwarf lord's arm.  
  
“Did you hear me, uncle?”  
  
“Yes, I heard you,” Thorin answered, his eyes still lock on the gold down below. “But this is nothing next to the beauty of the Arkenstone.”  
  
“Right, okay. But the mountain will be even more impressive once it's been restored. I know mother will be very glad to see Durin's Folk brought home again,” Kíli continued, hoping that his words might help Thorin remember the true reason they were here. The dwarves had not walked all this way to seize the Lonely Mountain's treasures, impressive though the hoard of gold might be; Thorin’s companions had joined him out of love and loyalty and the promise that Durin’s Folk might finally reclaim their place within the world.  
  
“Have you given any thought to the future? To keeping our home safe now that we have taken Erebor once more? Word will spread that there is a new King Under the Mountain and soon both allies and enemies will turn their eyes this way.”  
  
“You are right,” Thorin answered and for one brief moment, the once-king thought that his uncle was ready to listen to his advice.  
  
But then the dwarf lord turned to look at him and Kíli saw that there was no reason in his eyes. “I must find the Arkenstone before anyone else tries to claim the Lonely Mountain. This treasure is my birthright; there must be no doubt of that.”  
  
“Can we just forget the King's Jewel for a moment?” the once-king asked. Thorin's inability to think of anything but the Arkenstone was both worrying and irritating, this conversation going nowhere with his uncle at the helm. “There will be time enough to find the gem once we have renewed Thrór's treaties and our kingdom stands strong against all enemies who dare to challenge Erebor.”  
  
“ _Our_ kingdom? This is not our kingdom. This is _my_ kingdom and I will have the stone that is my right. There is nothing more important than the Arkenstone and only a fool would believe otherwise. Unless...”  
  
Thorin's eyes narrowed suddenly, Kíli's fingers itching for a weapon when his uncle's gaze turned murderous.  
  
“You want it for yourself, don't you?! You would dare!”  
  
“No! No! Of course not!” the once-king stammered quickly, holding up his hands. “I don't want power and I don't want the Arkenstone! All I want is for you to reign beneath the mountain, our people happy and prosperous again.”  
  
Every word was truth but the dwarf lord did not want to believe him, Kíli needing another dozen apologies and excuses before Thorin finally let go of his sword. Even then, he didn't seem entirely convinced and the archer knew that his uncle would be watching him with suspicion now. Anything that he said would be suspect and convincing the dwarf lord to listen would be that much harder after this.  
  
Clearly mentioning the Arkenstone had been a grave mistake because Thorin's need was worse than the once-king remembered – much, much worse. His uncle was obsessed with the gem beyond reason or regret and war might be the least of Kíli's worries now.  
  
Like this the dwarf lord would be less a king than a tyrant and the archer had a feeling that Thorin's fixation would only grow when the Arkenstone was found. The King's Jewel would give weight to his uncle's position, give him power enough to brush aside all doubts and turn allies to beggars in his mind. That would be the end of Kíli's hopes, the once-king losing more than the chance to save his family.  
  
But even without the gem, Thorin was clearly getting worse, his dragon-madness already stronger than it had been when his sister-sons arrived. If the once-king could not find a way to reverse the process then more extreme measure might be required and while Kíli did not want to reclaim the throne of Erebor, the negotiations to come would go much smoother with a different dwarf in charge. There was too much at stake for the archer to ignore any options, even ones that made him sick inside.  
  
So Kíli considered leading a coup against his uncle; he considered it and then he laid that thought aside. Because treason for a just cause was still treason and there were some lines that the once-king could not cross.  
  
Even if the rest of his companions backed him or Fíli agreed to steal his uncle's place – both propositions about as likely as Thranduil wedding Bard – Thorin would never step down peacefully. Kíli would have to kill him and the better future that Kaminzabdûna promised could not require regicide.  
  
Sacrifice was one thing, murder quite another, and so Thorin Oakenshield must remain the King Under the Mountain until the day he died.  
  
It was the once-king's task to ensure that this day came decades in the future and yet, as he considered the various paths that lay before him, Kíli found himself torn between Kaminzabdûna's purpose and everything that he believed was right.  
  
Because the archer's companions would actually be safest if they hid inside the Lonely Mountain during the coming battle and the strength of Thorin’s obsession would make him easy to convince. However, such cowardice would leave their allies on the field to be slaughtered, Erebor lost to Thorin with his honor even if his fellow kings won the day somehow.  
  
Indeed, Kíli was not sure how the rest of the company would react to such a suggestion when they clearly knew that Thorin was not well. Fíli and Ori kept glancing over in concern while the eyes of the older dwarves – those who remembered the last days of Thrór's kingdom – held despair as well as pain.  
  
This despair told the once-king several things that he did not wish to know. First, that Balin and the others knew of no way to cure his uncle's gold-madness. Second, that they probably would not try.  
  
His kin were in mourning for their leader, Thorin's commands something to be endured instead of challenged or ignored. That was the danger of kingship, that the dwarf lord's people would follow him even when his words were wrong.  
  
Although, once again Bilbo seemed to be the exception amongst their company; the hobbit had tried to talk to Thorin, he had told Kíli that himself, and he was just as unhappy about the dwarf lord's transformation as any of his kin. Indeed, Bilbo looked at Thorin as though his heart were breaking, what warmth the dwarf lord had found for his hobbit gone cold and cruel again. But there was also anger and determination visible beneath the sorrow in his eyes.  
  
Bilbo's expression told the archer that he was bound to repeat his theft if he found the Arkenstone, Erebor's greatest treasure bartered for a chance at peace and the sanity of the dwarf their hobbit loved. And while Kíli could probably stop the burglar despite the ring he carried, the archer could not force him to remain within the mountain while Thorin spiraled deeper into lunacy.  
  
For there was no guarantee that his uncle would not turn on his companions one by one and even if there were, Kíli could not cause such pain to one whom he still loved. Staying in this place as Thorin shattered would destroy Bilbo along with him and their burglar meant for joy instead of suffering.  
  
Bilbo was meant to return to the Shire and yet watching him watch Thorin, the once-king realized a simple truth. The hobbit would never leave his uncle willingly; he cared too much for that.  
  
So if Kíli could not return the dwarf lord to his senses, then he must allow Bilbo's banishment to happen as it had in the past. Thorin's hate would drive the hobbit away as his sickness never could and while this would hurt Bilbo, this would also save him – Valar's grace but it would save them all.  
  
However, this path must also be the once-king’s last resort because he knew well the strength of their hobbit’s loyalty and sending Bilbo from the mountain did not mean that he would run. After all, their burglar had thought Kíli worth dying for once already and the archer could not believe that Thorin would receive any less a sacrifice.  
  
In truth, the only way to ensure that Bilbo left before the Battle of the Five Armies started would be to leave the mountain with him and if needs must, Kíli was prepared to do just that.  
  
 _If all else fails, I can warn Fíli about Bolg and Azog and their army before leaving. With my raven to support him, Fí should be able to convince the others if not uncle and thus earn some grace to balance Thorin's cowardice. And at least my brother won't be jumping in front of any sword strikes without our uncle there. He's a skilled warrior and he'll be fine. He's not going to die if I leave him... Not going to die if I leave... Not going to die if I... Going to die if... Going to die... To di-_  
  
The once-king stumbled, his vision suddenly gone grey around the edges as a sharp pain pierced his chest. It felt as though someone was squeezing his heart in an iron grip, Kíli falling to his hands and knees with a gasp. But when he looked down, he didn't see the gold that must be there beneath him; all he saw was blood upon a muddy field.  
  
All he saw was his brother, cold as stone and unmoving but for the accusation in his eyes. _You should have saved me,_ those cold eyes seemed to say, boring into Kíli _You should have been there to save my life._  
  
“But I was there,” the once-king whispered. “I was there and I failed. I cannot fail again.”  
  
 _So you will run instead?_  
  
“I'm not... I have to protect Bilbo... I have to change our futures as Kaminzabdûna asked.”  
  
 _At the cost of your family?_  
  
“He's not going to die!”  
  
 _You don't know that. You can't know that. You're just hoping that the Valar won't demand your brother in payment for Bilbo's life. But what use are you to the future if not in sacrifice? You have no special skills, no special wisdom that another dwarrow could not gain. You cannot even convince your uncle to forget the Arkenstone. Your kin will die because you cannot do this task. You will leave and Fíli will die and it will not matter if the Lonely Mountain falls._  
  
This was not the voice of the Valar; this was the voice of Kíli's own fears within his mind and yet it was no less powerful for that. If anything, the voice was only stronger for being built from the once-king's nightmares and his deepest weaknesses and maybe it was Kíli who was the mad one now.  
  
He was shaking, rocking back and forth in a pile of gold and gemstones helplessly. He was shaking because he _was_ a failure; he was helpless and uncertain and he could not breathe. His fear was choking him; his memories were choking him and it took everything that the archer had to force them back again.  
  
Kíli was not on the battlefield; he was in the heart of Erebor. His hands were not painted red with the lifeblood of his brother; they were buried in the cold metal of Thrór's great treasure hoard. The once-king focused on these small details, concentrating on the smooth metal beneath his fingers until his brother's corpse faded from his vision and the fist around his heart finally let him breathe.  
  
But the archer could still feel the echoes of that terror inside him when he thought of leaving Fíli, a gaping hole just waiting to pull him down once more.  
  
 _Valar's grace, but I can't follow Bilbo,_ Kíli thought, resting his head in his hands _If this happens again, I'll be worse than useless; I'll be a liability. Maybe if Fí joined me, I could manage but I can't ask him to give up Erebor. Not when he defied our uncle once for me already and this would break his heart._  
  
Which meant that the archer had no good options if Thorin was not cured of his gold-madness before Bard and Thranduil came. Bilbo would not be able to stay and Kíli would not be able to go with him, the hobbit left to fend for himself outside of the walls of Erebor. And, knowing Bilbo, he would probably do something brave and foolish without anyone there to stop him, the future lost when their burglar got himself killed again.  
  
 _So I will just have to ensure that my first plan succeeds and there is no need for an alternative. I will cure Thorin with the aid of my raven, we will ally with Laketown as uncle promised and find something to appease the elf king. We will be prepared when Azog and Bolg come to claim our bloodline and they will rue the day they tried. This I fucking swear._  
  
Vow made, Kíli looked up, worried that one of his companions – or worse, his uncle – had seen him fall apart. That wouldn't exactly make him more trustworthy in the realm of kings and battles but it appeared that the archer had been lucky this time around.  
  
He had fallen some distance away from the others, hidden from their sight by one of the hall's enormous pillars, and while his thoughts had been screaming, he had not let them out. If Kíli had then Fíli would have been at his side already and when the archer pushed himself back to his feet, he saw his brother standing unconcerned on the far side of the hall.  
  
Or, at least, as unconcerned as he could be with Thorin glaring at him, the entire company starting to look a bit disgruntled as their search dragged on.  
  
“Any sign of it?” Thorin called, receiving a chorus of 'no's and 'nothing's in reply.  
  
“Keep searching!”  
  
“That jewel could be anywhere.”  
  
“The Arkenstone is in these halls; find it!” Thorin overrode Óin's protest with a quiet fury that was somehow more disturbing than his explosive rage had been. Rage might burn out, but this was the endless hate of a mountain and it would last a lifetime easily.  
  
“You heard him; keep looking!”  
  
“All of you, no one rests until it is found!” the dwarf lord commanded before stalking off in a swirl of ermine, seeking solitude to brood upon his wrongs.  
  
Indeed, the once-king was growing increasingly worried about his uncle, fearing that the other dwarf might fall past the point of no return before he could bring his plan to bear. Kíli needed his uncle rational enough that is raven's words would reach him and the way things were going, Thorin might not last until the dwarf returned. The archer needed a holding action, something to weaken Thorin's dragon-madness before it consumed him utterly.  
  
Kíli knew that he could not speak with his uncle himself, not when Thorin already thought his sister-son had designs on Erebor, but maybe the dwarf lord would still listen to his burglar. After all, Bilbo had no true stake in the Lonely Mountain beyond his share of promised treasure and his position as an outsider would serve the once-king now. Indeed, the hobbit had the best chance of piercing Thorin's obsession and thus when he slipped away from the treasure hall, Kíli waited a few minutes and then followed him.  
  
It did not matter that the burglar had failed this task once already; all that mattered was that he tried again. Because Bilbo did not have to heal Thorin's gold-sickness; he just had to keep the dwarf from losing himself completely before the once-king and his raven could make him see sense again.  
  
Only then would Kíli be able to leave Bilbo in the mountain where he would not come to harm, the archer perfectly willing to tie the hobbit to a pillar if that would keep him off the battlefield. With the burglar safe, the once-king would only have to protect Fíli and their uncle from Azog’s fury, and his knowledge of his enemies should give him an edge in this fight.  
  
Once the orcs were defeated, Thorin would take his rightful place on the throne of Erebor while Bilbo returned to the Shire as Kaminzabdûna asked. There was nothing but love to hold their hobbit in the Lonely Mountain and that would be slim comfort when his love was not returned.  
  
Of course, Bilbo _was_ loved and seeing him pine over Thorin like this was making it difficult for Kíli to remember that he had planned to build a life with Tauriel. This hobbit might not be _his_ hobbit, but the once-king's eyes could not tell the difference and his heart did not truly want to know.  
  
So when the archer finally managed to find their burglar in one of Erebor's many antechambers, he did not begin with a plea for help as he had planned. Instead he found himself sitting down next to Bilbo, his heart aching at the slump of the hobbit's shoulders and the sorrow in his eyes.  
  
“Are you all right?” Kíli asked, wishing that he dared to hug the burglar now.  
  
“I’m okay, Kíli. You don’t need to worry,” Bilbo said, smiling at the archer tremulously. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised since nothing on our journey has happened as I thought it would; but it doesn’t seem fair that Thorin should reclaim your homeland only to lose himself instead. Erebor was supposed to be the end of our quest, but while the mountain is beautiful, I have a bad feeling in my chest.”  
  
“Maybe you should leave, now while you still can,” Kíli suggested on the slim chance that the hobbit might heed his words and go  
  
But Bilbo simply shook his head, denying this choice as the once-king knew he would. “I can’t leave. I’m not going to abandon this company when you might still need your burglar. Besides, where would I go? I can’t go to Laketown when it’s my fault that Smaug attacked them, the elves would probably just throw me back in the dungeons, and I don’t fancy making the trip back to Hobbiton alone.  
  
“No, Kíli, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until this tale comes to an end. And even if our quest has not been what I expected, I can honestly say that I do not regret my choice to join your uncle's company.”  
  
The hobbit smiled then, sweet and sad and far too similar to the one that still haunted Kíli's dreams. That sad smile was the once-king’s last memory of his Bilbo – it had come to symbolize all that he regretted – and so he did now what he wished that he had done back then.  
  
Kíli leaned forward and kissed his burglar softly, one hand cupping the nape of Bilbo’s neck. It was just the barest press of lips but even so the archer could almost believe that he was back in his own time again. Back in the time when his hobbit had truly loved him and before his blood was spilled. But even though Bilbo’s lips were as soft as the once-king had always imagined, this fantasy could not last. Because the hobbit did not respond to Kíli's overture and when the dwarf felt a hand on his shoulder, he drew back to meet the burglar’s startled eyes.  
  
“Kíli? Why… I'm sorry... I'm not...” Bilbo stammered out in awkward apology, “I just don’t feel that way.”  
  
The hobbit seemed honestly regretful, more worried about comforting Kíli than the line his friend just overstepped. But Bilbo wasn't telling the once-king anything that he didn't know already so Kíli stopped the burglar’s apology with a hand against his lips and a sad smile of his own.  
  
“I know, Bilbo. It's all right; just call it a goodbye. I've been wanting to do that for a while now” - _for decades, truly_ \- “and I could not miss my chance. Thorin doesn't know how lucky he is to have won a heart like yours.”  
  
“Thorin? I don't...” the burglar started, trailing off with a blush when the archer raised one skeptical eyebrow. “All right, maybe I do, but it’s not as though anything will come of it.”  
  
“My uncle may not return the strength of your feelings, but I am sure that he considers you a friend,” Kíli said, though he knew this was probably slim comfort now. “Thorin does not have many friends beyond the members of this company, and in truth, most of us are kin as well. So please do not give up on him just yet. Remind him that treasure is a cold companion when life grows difficult and if you do find the Arkenstone, I would keep it to yourself. Because there are more important things than gold and gemstones and if you can make Thorin remember that, we may rid him of his madness before all hope is lost. ”  
  
“I will do my best, Kíli,” Bilbo promised. “Though I do not know how much difference one hobbit can make on this grand stage of kings and treasure halls.”  
  
“You are more important than you know, Bilbo, so just do the best you can,” the once-king replied. “And perhaps my uncle will finally see how much you care before our quest is done. You would be good for him.”  
  
As he spoke the words, Kíli found that he meant them despite the ache in his own chest. Bilbo deserved to be loved as he desired and there was still a chance that Thorin would realize the truth of his hobbit's feelings, slim though it might be. Maybe the burglar would be able to steal the dwarf lord's heart for himself if he did not have to steal the Arkenstone. After all, Kaminzabdûna had not said that Bilbo had to return to the Shire forever, just that he must go.  
  
Let the hobbit live out his days in Erebor if he so desired, Thorin showering him with all the love and adoration that his bravery had earned. Admittedly, the dwarf did not know whether he would actually be able to bear the sight of Bilbo and his uncle bound together, but once the Battle of the Five Armies had ended, Kíli did not need to stay.  
  
He could leave with Tauriel if the elfine agreed to join him and traveling the world with her should make him forget the ache. He would have a new love to replace that which this timeline had forgotten, carving out his own small bit of happiness.  
  
This would be enough if his friends and family could be protected and the Lonely Mountain need never face a hopeless war again. Indeed, the future should be bright for everyone if Thorin could just be brought out from the darkness and the tide of battle changed.  
  
So Kíli thanked Bilbo for his promise and then took his leave of the hobbit, seeking out the rest of their company instead. The archer had done what he could; he trusted Bilbo to speak to Thorin as soon as possible and his presence at that meeting would only hurt their cause. Now was the time for patience, for waiting as his plans came to fruition, and he should spend some time with the other dwarves to judge what they might do.  
  
Most of his companions were gathered by the gate, taking a break from their search for the Arkenstone while Thorin wasn't there to shout. Instead they'd turned their hands to other work – Bombur and Dori were grooming their beards while Ori wrote upon a borrowed scroll and the rest of the company had taken their weapons out for sharpening. The dwarves might have replaced their stolen armaments from Laketown's stores, but men did not care for their blades as a dwarrow would. These swords needed polishing and edging and while the weapons in Erebor's armory might be better on both counts, no one would dare to touch them without Thorin's permission, not when his mood was so unpredictable.  
  
The dwarf lord would probably banish his companions for theft or some such ridiculous charge and while Kíli hoped to have Thorin sane before there was any need for battle, it was always good to be prepared. So the once-king sat down by his brother and pulled out his own sword, accepting the whetstone that Fíli offered him and then bending to his task.  
  
As he sharpened the blade, the archer listened to the others talk, their conversation laced with worry though they spoke of simple things. Kíli could hear the concern beneath the words, concern but no call for action, and as the minutes dragged by without a sign of Thorin or their burglar, the once-king found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Because there were too many unknowns in his future – too many what ifs that the dwarf could not control – and any one of them might ruin everything.  
  
 _If my raven does not return... If Bilbo fails to ease Thorin's madness... If Azog and Bolg choose to attack more fiercely than before... If... If... If.. If.. If. If! If!_ the litany went until the maelstrom in Kíli's head was enough to drive him to insanity.  
  
The once-king was doing his best but he could not prepare for every twist of chance and there was no way of knowing what would be the same as it had been before. There were only guesses to guide his planning and while the dwarf was sure of certain actions, he was unsure of far more.  
  
Chief amongst his troubles was the fear that Bilbo and his raven would not be enough to sway his uncle toward alliance and even if the dwarf lord kept his promise to Laketown – _and he **must** keep his promise_ – that still left Thranduil unaccounted for. Thranduil whom Thorin had hated even before the gold-sickness took his mind.  
  
So Kíli might well fail in his endeavors and just in case he was forced to let their hobbit steal the Arkenstone and be banished from the mountain, the archer should take measures for Bilbo's safety now. There must be some way to ensure that the burglar was protected even if the once-king was not with him; there must be some way to make him run far from the battlefield.  
  
However, the dwarf could not see a clear path to this future no matter how he tried and after the third time that he nearly sliced his finger on his sword through inattention, Kíli decided that he needed to try something else instead.  
  
“Fíli? Will you walk with me?” the once-king asked his brother, sheathing his blade as Fíli looked up in surprise.  
  
It had been too long since the two of them had had time for each other, conversation falling by the wayside when danger threatened all their lives. Indeed, there hadn’t been a truly peaceful evening since the company left Beorn’s hall and even then the archer had been more distant than he ought.  
  
While Kíli had gotten his brother back, there had been too many secrets standing in-between them, his heart grown old with sorrow while Fíli's was still young. And the once-king had accepted this, the disconnect a small price to pay to see his brother live the life that he deserved. But that did not mean Kíli had to like it and he needed Fíli now. He needed to know that his brother was there with him as he tried to change the future and he had always done his best thinking when bouncing ideas back and forth.  
  
So he asked and despite their recent distance, Fíli answered without argument. Indeed, the other dwarf simply smiled at Kíli's request, pocketing his whetstone and moving to his brother's side.  
  
“Lead on, little brother,” Fíli said, ushering the once-king forward with a wave of his hand. So the archer did just that, leading his brother into one of the hall's many side passages where they would not be overheard.  
  
However, once they were alone, Kíli did not know where to start. The once-king didn’t know how to share his burdens after so many weeks of holding silent and he would need the perfect words to bridge the gap between their hearts. But he could not find them and so instead of speaking, the archer paced the width of the tunnel, circling around his brother until the other dwarf took pity on his cowardice.  
  
“Are you all right, Kí?” Fíli asked, reaching out to still his brother when he drew near again. “You’ve been different since we reached the Lonely Mountain and while I am also troubled by the changes we have found here, I do not like to see such worry on your face.”  
  
Somehow this concern was enough to end the once-king’s silence, though he could not bring himself to speak of the life that he had lived without Fíli at his side. But that didn't mean he could not speak of the task that stood before him and perhaps warning his brother would help to ease the terror within his heart.  
  
“War is coming, Fíli. War is coming and I fear for us all,” Kíli told him, slumping down next to the other dwarf with a sigh. “This battle will be the linchpin of our future and I do not know if I can do what the Valar ask. I do not know if I can heed Kaminzabdûna and keep us safe as well.”  
  
“And what did our Mother tell you?” the elder prince replied, giving Kíli a half-shrug when the archer glanced over in astonishment. He had been expecting something other than this calm acceptance, but it seemed Fíli was not done surprising him.  
  
“If you say that you’ve heard the Valar then I believe you and it’s good to have an explanation for the distance in your heart. You’re still my brother; you’re always going to be my little brother, and I will ever be there to help you if I can.”  
  
Fíli couldn't know how much these words meant to his brother, a promise that the archer had not destroyed their relationship with his secrets and his lies. They could still be Fíli and Kíli even if they would not be quite the same and the once-king dearly wished to see how his brother grew and changed throughout the years. That was a prize worth as much as any love or treasure and Kíli would not turn Fíli's helping hand away.  
  
Instead the dwarf admitted, “This is probably going to sound crazy, but I have to ensure that our burglar survives. I do not know why, for the Valar did not tell me, but Bilbo must return to the Shire or all our hope is lost.”  
  
“You’re right; that does sound a little crazy,” Fíli agreed, grinning when his brother smacked him on the arm. “Yet it does not seem that difficult. If you fear for his life on the battlefield then we keep him in the mountain and send him home when the fighting’s done.”  
  
“That is my hope, Fí, and I have several plans in motion that may make my worry moot. But what if uncle does not improve? What should I do then?”  
  
His brother’s grimace was answer enough, the other dwarf far from blind to the way that their uncle had been acting: his suspicion and obsession and the driving need to possess the Arkenstone. Thorin was no longer the dwarf that his sister-sons had admired and while some of that shine had already been lost for Kíli, this truth must be a dagger to his brother’s heart.  
  
However, Fíli did not give into despair as the once-king had been sorely tempted to do more than once. Instead the other dwarf just wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug.  
  
“If we cannot protect him here, then we’ll find another way,” Fíli promised, somehow making Kíli believe him even now. “Perhaps Bilbo can seek refuge with Bard and his family since the man seemed quite fond of our burglar. Surely the Dragonslayer should be able to protect one hobbit's life. Or, if all else fails, maybe Thranduil would give him shelter since the elf king should not know that Bilbo traveled with us and hobbits look much like children to most eyes.”  
  
“I do not think I should trust our future to Thranduil’s hospitality,” Kíli told his brother, the elf king not exactly known for helping those who were not Mirkwood born. Thranduil might protect the hobbit or he might just leave him – _in fact, I'm pretty sure that's where Bilbo started the battle last time and Mahal knows where that decision led._  
  
But Fíli still had a point; if Kíli couldn't follow their burglar from the mountain – and the once-king had certainly noticed that his brother failed to mention this possibility – then he would have to trust Bilbo to someone outside of Erebor. Someone who could convince the hobbit to seek refuge while Thorin's company sought battle and there was only one person whose opinion Bilbo respected well enough for that.  
  
It would have to be Gandalf and if some new threat had not waylaid him, the wizard should be arriving on wings of warning soon – though, sadly, not soon enough to plan for the coming battle properly. But the once-king remembered him being present when Bard showed the Arkenstone to Thorin, Gandalf saving Bilbo from a much worse fate than banishment.  
  
The wizard had done it then and he should do it now, the Battle of the Five Armies gathering all threads together in a knot of fate and destiny. This would be Gandalf's chance to redeem himself for his failures since Kíli's revelation in Mirkwood did not absolve the wizard from all responsibility. Even if the blood of Durin's sons was not his sole weight to bear, Gandalf had brought Bilbo on this journey and he should have seen the hobbit safely home again.  
  
However, this time, the wizard would. This time Kíli would warn him to keep their burglar from the battle so that Kaminzabdûna's charge could be fulfilled.  
  
“Thank you, brother; I think you’ve helped me find a better path. Though I hope Thorin will find the strength to shake off this treasure madness before it comes to that,” the archer said, resting his head on Fíli's shoulder with a sigh.  
  
He should really get up now, search out another raven to be his messenger and ensure that Gandalf was forewarned when he arrived. But Kíli didn’t want to get up; he wanted to stay here with his brother and pretend that he was truly young again. He felt closer to Fíli now than he had in ages and while the once-king was still holding secrets, they did not seem so heavy anymore. Because his brother had believed him when he spoke of his mission and the dwarf could ask no more than that.  
  
But eventually Kíli's arm started to fall asleep where he was leaning against Fíli and his stomach started to protest the hours since it had last been fed. So the archer pushed himself to his feet with a groan before holding out a hand to his brother and pulling him up as well.  
  
“Are you ready to go back?” the once-king asked. “Depending on our uncle's mood, I may need you to distract him while I seek out a raven. He'll probably be suspicious if I try to sneak off on my own.”  
  
“Don't worry, Kí. I'll watch your back,” Fíli agreed readily. “Just tell me when.”  
  
So the dwarves returned to the entrance hall, Kíli needing to borrow a scrap of parchment and a quill from Ori in order to write his message down. That much went smoothly, the other dwarf not even asking why. But unfortunately, the once-king hadn't finished writing before Thorin stormed back into the chamber with Dwalin and Bilbo trailing after him.  
  
The dwarf lord ordered his company to the gate, his face twisted in such a froth of rage that no one dared to question him. Instead the dwarves did as Thorin commanded, laying down their tools and climbing to their feet. Even Kíli just pocketed his message since he could not risk trying to sneak off until his uncle had calmed down. Gandalf would simply have to wait until Thorin stopped staring at his sister-sons with such suspicious eyes.  
  
Something had made their uncle very, very angry and judging by the pain on Bilbo's face, the hobbit would be no help in extinguishing this rage. Their burglar had clearly tried to talk to the dwarf lord and just as clearly failed, Kíli now one step closer to needing Gandalf's help.  
  
However, Bilbo wasn't the only person distressed by Thorin's anger and the once-king's disappointment was overcome by curiosity when he saw the pensive frown on Dwalin's face. So the archer sidled up to his old mentor, keeping one wary eye on Thorin to ensure that his uncle would not overhear his words before he spoke.  
  
“Is everything all right, Dwalin?” the once-king asked, wanting to make sure that no new danger had appeared while he and Fíli were working out their plan.  
  
“Aye, laddie. I just curse my timing,” Dwalin told Kíli with a sigh. “Thorin looked almost normal talking to our burglar, but as soon as I told him about the refugees from Laketown, he turned back into _that_ again.”  
  
It was rare for the other dwarf to question Thorin so openly, the warrior loyal to his king beyond a doubt. Indeed, this conversation was a sure sign that no one was resting easy with the change in Thorin's temperament, particularly those like Balin who had known his grandfather in the days when he was young.  
  
This was wrong; the entire company knew that this was wrong and so the mood was grim when Thorin ordered them to block up the mountain's gate. It was not the work that bothered his companions, indeed repairing the damage that Smaug had done was only sensible. But Kíli knew that his uncle was motivated more by fear for his kingdom's gold than by any fear for his people's safety, Thorin's priorities made far too obvious by the crazed light in his eyes.  
  
Still, needs must, and at least moving blocks of stone around might distract the archer from his worries about the days to come. So the once-king offered to help Bilbo with his wheelbarrow, patting the burglar on his shoulder when his uncle looked away.  
  
“It's not your fault,” Kíli murmured, though the hobbit didn't seem to believe him. He just kept watching Thorin, the burglar's disappointment at his failure written clear across his face.  
  
The company worked steadily, those more skilled at masonry directing those without the knack. Soon Erebor's gate had been sealed off to the height of the average dwarrow, but their pace wasn't fast enough for the King Under the Mountain to be satisfied.  
  
“I want this fortress made safe by sunup,” Thorin growled, his thunderous scowl urging the company to work more quickly at their task. “The mountain was hard won; I will not see it taken again.”  
  
As though a bunch of desperate fisherman would truly be able to overwhelm their defenses. As though the dwarf lord had not promised Laketown aid from Erebor. The men needed this assistance more than ever now that Smaug had burned their city and honor demanded that Thorin offer succor even if his vow had not. But the King Under the Mountain was speaking of the Lakemen as enemies when he would need every ally shortly and his words made Kíli's blood boil in his veins.  
  
 _Give Bard a few chests of gold; give Thranduil the White Gems of Lasgalen that he so desires and just call this madness done._  
  
So the once-king let go of his wheelbarrow, the metal hitting the floor with an echoing clatter as he rounded on his uncle, worry and anger overwhelming his restraint.  
  
“The people of Laketown have _nothing_ ,” the archer shouted, trying to make Thorin see that he was acting as false as Thranduil had all those years ago. “They came to us in need; they have lost everything!”  
  
“Do not tell me what _they_ have lost. I know well enough their hardship,” the dwarf lord snarled back, refusing to see the parallels between his actions and those of the elf king he so despised. “Those who have lived through dragon fire should rejoice. They have much to be grateful for.”  
  
Thorin's tone brooked no argument, the dwarf lord looking out over the ruins of Dale with a cold glare before shouting, “More stone! Bring more stone to the gate!”  
  
And the company obeyed him, even Kíli, though his heart was heavy when he went back to his work. But to challenge his uncle further could easily lead to banishment given Thorin’s current state of mind and the archer could not risk that, not when the very thought sent a twinge of pain through his heart again. Instead the once-king would wait for their burglar to steal the Arkenstone, his well-intentioned betrayal sending him straight into the wizard’s care.  
  
 _Don't think like that. There's still the raven,_ the archer told himself, trying to shake off the foul mood that he was in. _Bolg and Azog's army shouldn't be very difficult to find and the bird is probably on its way back right now. Even Thorin won't be able to ignore such enemies._  
  
Indeed, the dwarf lord had fought bravely in the past Battle of the Five Armies despite everything, waiting until he could best turn the battle's tide before charging forth to meet his enemies, and if Kíli's plans were successful, the King Under the Mountain would fight with honor once again.  
  
Yet there was still the if, that ever present if, and thus Gandalf must be warned.  
  
So Fíli offered to take first watch when the company finally finished blocking off the gate to Thorin's satisfaction, the prince covering for his brother so that Kíli could slip away. The archer returned to the raven's aerie, finding a bird that was willing to carry his warning to the wizard with the first light of dawn.  
  
 _‘Gandalf, I hope this message finds you in good health and good haste,’_ the once-king’s letter read.  
  
 _‘Although our errand was successful and the kingdom of Erebor reclaimed, it pains me to inform you that Thorin has been overtaken by dragon-sickness and thus we can no longer guarantee Bilbo’s safety in these halls. However, our burglar is not without friends amongst our company and I would beg you to see to his protection if you can. If the worst should happen and war comes upon the Lonely Mountain, please send Bilbo as far from this cursed place as possible before the fighting starts. He is a gentle soul and he does not deserve the sort of friendship that Thorin offers now. No one does and his true friends will rest much easier knowing he is safe.’_  
  
Kíli signed this letter with his own name and then gave it to the raven, knowing that the bird would not rest until his message was in the wizard’s hand. While the once-king had not spoken of Bilbo’s true importance to the Valar – those words much too dangerous to put in writing with enemies about – this warning should be enough for now.  
  
Indeed, the archer didn't know if Gandalf would believe the whole truth if he told it and he couldn't afford to have his letter dismissed as mad ramblings. Let the wizard arrive at the Lonely Mountain before Kíli started speaking of the Valar, this first letter laying the foundation for the revelations still to come.  
  
With his task completed, the once-king relieved Fíli, serving his own watch before lying down to sleep. Kíli was expecting a restless night but he slept surprisingly well, his worries quieted by the hope that still lived on raven wing. Instead of blood, the once-king dreamed of starlight, of flame and glowing emeralds, and he woke feeling well-rested just before the dawn. None of the others were awake yet, even Bombur having drifted off on watch, and Kíli was grateful to have a quiet moment before he must be strong again.  
  
“You will have your king,” the dwarf whispered to the stone beneath him, the song of Erebor dancing through his mind. “You will see joy and love and glory, golden centuries to rival any kingdom that has ever lived before. You will thrive and Durin's Folk will thrive with you until the last days of our world.”  
  
As though this promise were an omen, the once-king heard the rustle of wings above him and when he looked up, he saw two ravens flying through the hall. One was leaving, Kíli's message held gently in its beak, and he knew that Gandalf would have his letter before the day was out. But it was the other raven that made the archer sit up quickly, hope and anticipation warring in his heart. For this was the bird that Kíli had sent to find his enemies and his uncle would have to listen to him now.  
  
So the once-king wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and crept away from his companions, freezing in place whenever one of the others stirred. He wished to hear the raven's news in private before bringing it to Thorin since the dwarf lord's dragon-sickness would require a delicate approach.  
  
This was Kíli's last chance to change the pattern; if he failed then he must trust to Gandalf and to heartbreak to see the Valar's mission done. But at least the archer had a chance and his steps were almost light as he climbed the stairs to the upper level where his raven waited. It was time to discover what the bird had found.  
  



	10. Preamble - Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later posting this than I planned, but I've got the last two chapters for you now.

“What news do you bring me of my enemies?” Kíli asked as soon as the raven was in earshot, the dwarf taking the last few steps at a run. He needed to know whether his plan had any chance of succeeding and he needed to know it now.  
  
If the bird had been older, the archer would not have dared such rudeness despite his impatience – indeed, Roäc had once refused to speak to him for days after Kíli ticked him off. But this raven was hardly more than a fledgling and so it only gave a little huff of ruffled feathers at the once-king's informality before telling him what he wished to know.  
  
 _'Orcs, but not orcs,'_ the raven said, its uncertainty visible in the tilt of its head. _'I saw the tracks of an army; the bones of meals and the ash of fires but no orcs in my sight. Their path lead underground, into the dark cold earth where I could not fly and my sharp eyes did not see them rise to light again.'_  
  
“Could you tell where they were going? Anything to prove that the orcs are coming here?” the once-king demanded a little desperately.  
  
 _'The earth rumbles to the west. It shakes and shudders as I have never seen before. But I do not know where the tunnels lead.'_  
  
“That's it? That's all you have?!”  
  
The words tore out of Kíli without conscious intent, the dwarf whirling and slamming his fist into the stone. With this news, the raven had destroyed all of his careful planning, his best hope at convincing Thorin gone. Because tracks were not enough; tracks would not bring the dwarf lord from his madness before men and elves started pounding on his door.  
  
The orcs could be marching on Mirkwood or Lothlórien for all the raven knew, only Kíli's past history making him certain that they were coming here instead, and his uncle would probably be overjoyed at the thought of the forest under siege.  
  
“Fuck,” the once-king whispered, slumping to his knees on the battlements. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”  
  
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the dwarf cursing everyone and everything and his own failures most of all. But eventually the rustling of the raven's feathers brought Kíli from his stupor, the once-king raising his head to see the bird staring down at him expectantly.  
  
 _'I am hungry. I am tired. I must roost,'_ the raven said, these simple concerns driving the once-king into motion where his own will could not.  
  
“Yes, of course. I am sorry,” the archer murmured. He rooted through his pockets until he found a few scraps of meat to offer, the raven taking these morsels from his fingers with its beak. “Thank you for your service; you have more than earned a rest. But first I must ask one last thing of you. When my uncle wakes, please tell him what you told me. I do not think that it will change his purpose, but maybe this knowledge will aid our allies down the line.”  
  
 _'I live to serve the kings beneath the mountain,'_ the bird answered, hopping onto Kíli's arm when the archer offered it. The once-king carried his raven back to the company's camp, the other dwarves just beginning to stir beneath the light of dawn.  
  
“Uncle, are you awake?” Kíli asked quietly as he knelt at Thorin's side. “This raven arrived at the end of my watch and asked to speak with you.”  
  
When the dwarf lord turned his head, the once-king almost recoiled, the shadows in his uncle's eyes having grown much deeper overnight. But Thorin didn't appear to notice the archer's unease, his focus on the raven still perched on Kíli's arm.  
  
“If you have news then speak it,” the dwarf lord commanded and the raven did as it was told.  
  
Indeed, the bird did its best to convince Thorin of the danger, but the conversation went just as the once-king had feared it would. His uncle dismissed the signs of Azog's army as unimportant; a threat to be dealt with later if it arrived at all. For Thorin's dragon-sickness only allowed him to grasp that which threatened Erebor's gold directly and tracks to the west were too abstract for his fevered mind. Although even the dwarf lord could recognize that his company would be vastly outnumbered if the Lakemen came to fight.  
  
So Thorin ordered Kíli's raven to lead him to its aerie, sending out messengers to the Iron Hills for reinforcements the way that he had done in the past. Then the dwarf lord roused his company, ordering them to eat and make ready before their uninvited guests arrived.  
  
Of course, the once-king's uncle didn't take his own advice, instead standing on the ramparts and glaring at the army of elves that had appeared on the walls of Dale overnight. The dwarf lord refused to move when his companions called him down for breakfast, refused to eat even when Balin brought way-bread to the gate.  
  
Eventually the other dwarves left him to his brooding and returned to their own work, more than an hour passing in this way. But just as the once-king was starting to wonder if a messenger would actually appear this morning, Thorin swept into the middle of their small camp again.  
  
“Come on!” the dwarf lord commanded, his companions grabbing their weapons and following him to the top of the blocked gate. From this vantage point, they could see a lone man on horseback riding toward them, Kíli surprised to see that the man was Bard. The once-king had been expecting several days of messengers before the negotiations reached this point, but it seemed that the timeline had shortened on him once again.  
  
“Hail Thorin son of Thráin. We are glad to find you alive beyond hope,” the bowman called, reining his horse to a stop before the gate.  
  
“Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?” Thorin shouted back, forgoing diplomatic niceties for hostility.  
  
“Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in like a robber in his hole?” Bard answered, Kíli wincing as his uncle's expression darkened even more.  
  
“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed!”  
  
This response actually appeared to knock the man off balance for a moment – perhaps this incarnation of Bard did not truly wish to start a war with Erebor or perhaps he simply realized that politeness was far more likely to be successful than veiled insults could ever be. Whatever the reason, the bowman's tone was almost pleading when he replied, “My lord, we have not come to rob you but to seek fair settlement. Will you not speak with me?”  
  
Thorin thought for a long moment before nodding once in agreement. He signaled Bard to walk up to the gate and then walked down the stairs to meet him, pausing at the bottom to summon one of the ravens who had been waiting in the wings  
  
“Find Dáin's army for me and bid them further speed,” the dwarf lord ordered, sending the raven winging from the mountain before stepping up the blockade to deal with Bard again.  
  
“I'm listening.”  
  
“On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask that you honor your pledge,” the bowman said. “A share of the treasure so that they might rebuild their lives.”  
  
“I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door.”  
  
“That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms.”  
  
“Your threats do not sway me.”  
  
“What of your conscience? Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help, and in return, you brought on them only ruin and death.”  
  
Bard's tongue was smoother than Kíli remembered and he found himself hoping that these negotiations would go better than they had in the past. A slim hope, but all the once-king had now that his plans had failed.  
  
So maybe his uncle would listen despite the veiled threat of Thranduil's army on Dale's walls. Maybe Thorin would recognize that the bowman had a much better claim to offer in this lifetime since the dwarf lord had promised that the Lakemen would have a share of Erebor. He had given his word – and the dwarf lord of the once-king's childhood did not break his vows.  
  
Except he did; Thorin answered Bard's entreaties with a single question, one tinged with such bitterness as Kíli had never heard in his uncle's words before.  
  
“When did the men of Laketown ever come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?” the dwarf lord asked and the once-king was suddenly certain that Thorin was not seeing Bard right now. Thorin was seeing every man who had ever tried to cheat him out of a fair day's labor, every elf who had refused his people sanctuary, and the bowman might as well have been speaking Sindarin when he reminded the dwarf lord that a bargain had been made.  
  
“A bargain? What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food; to ransom our future in exchange for our freedom?” Thorin asked, decades of slights and dishonor ringing in his voice.  
  
What choice had Durin's Folk ever had after Smaug claimed their kingdom, their home lost and their friends nowhere to be seen. For friends that must be bought were no true friends to Durin's sons and even though Kíli knew where such bitterness would lead, his heart bled for his uncle's eloquence. It bled for his uncle's pain, the dreams that Thorin had never lived to see fulfilled and the second chance that his dragon-madness was threatening to ruin now.  
  
“You call that a fair trade? Tell me, Bard the Dragonslayer, why should I honor such terms?”  
  
“Because you gave us your word. Does that mean nothing?” the bowman pleaded, though he must know that his cause was hopeless, and the archer's heart bled for him as well. His people were no better off than Thorin's, their lives lost to the dragon and their home lost to the flames and what greed was in their hearts was at least partly born from necessity.  
  
Perhaps neither king was entirely in the right here even as neither would give in and Kíli didn't know how he could have believed that Thorin and Bard would ever come to terms. Because the dwarf lord would never give up the birthright of his people – he hadn't even without the gold-sickness to bind his thoughts to avarice – and a bargain struck from desperation could not have turned that truth aside.  
  
It was hopeless and yet the once-king would keep trying until his last breath failed him, even if every attempt at diplomacy ended in threats of blood instead.  
  
Indeed, Thorin had come to the end of his patience with Bard's entreaties, the dwarf lord halting this farce of a negotiation with a shout. “Be gone; ere arrow fly!”  
  
The bowman cursed but did as he was ordered, mounting his horse and riding back to Dale again as the dwarves watched from the top of the gate. This was the beginning of the end and if some part of their story had to remain unchanged by the Valar's weaving, why must it be this?  
  
“He will come back with an army and the orcs will follow him,” Kíli murmured to his brother.  
  
“Thorin does not care,” Fíli replied and the once-king knew that it was true. Their uncle would be content to live within the Lonely Mountain while the whole world burned outside it; he would let Middle Earth fall to ruin as long as his gold survived. But even the largest wall might crumble if someone kept chipping at its foundation and it’s not as though Kíli had any other options now. Because he could not leave Erebor without his brother and Fíli would never leave without Thorin at their side.  
  
So the once-king opened his mouth to say something, what exactly he hadn't quite worked out. However, before he could speak, Bilbo got there first.  
  
“What are you doing? You cannot go to war!” the hobbit protested, too stubborn to admit that Thorin was beyond all reason now. But then again, he and Kíli had always been matched well in obstinacy.  
  
“This does not concern you,” the dwarf lord growled in answer to this challenge, as though Bilbo had not been with their company every step of the way. As though the hobbit did not have the right to worry for his friends.  
  
“Excuse me?! But just in case you haven't noticed there is an army of elves out there, not to mention several hundred angry fishermen. We are, in fact, outnumbered.”  
  
“Not for much longer,” was Thorin's smug reply, the dwarf lord's hopes resting on raven wing. And in this one thing, Kíli could not fault his uncle's certainty. Dáin would come as long as he received Thorin's message and at least one of Erebor's ravens was sure to reach the Iron Hills in time. But the hobbit had still been asleep when the dwarf lord had set his birds to flight and so this answer only made him angrier.  
  
“What does that mean?” Bilbo asked, throwing his hands up in the air. The burglar had always been too forgiving of Thorin's moods, too ready to pass his successes off as luck over skill, but it seemed that he had finally reached his breaking point.  
  
Some things did not change despite the tapestry that Vairë had rewoven; some spark that made Bilbo Bilbo was still the same within his heart. Indeed, this was the spark that the once-king was trusting to make him to steal the Arkenstone again. Perhaps not in the same manner, but as long as the gemstone made its way into Bard the bowman's hands that would be good enough. That would get Bilbo away from Thorin before he could do something unforgivable and once Kíli's uncle banished their burglar, Gandalf would protect him as the archer's letter urged. The wizard would have to keep Bilbo from the battle so that Kíli could concentrate on breaking Thorin's madness and protecting his own family.  
  
So the archer stayed silent as his uncle and their hobbit argued, though his every instinct cried out for him to step in on Bilbo's side. The once-king had to walk a careful balance between challenging Thorin's dragon-sickness and pushing the other dwarf too far, and the more frustrated Bilbo grew with his uncle now, the sooner he should steal the Arkenstone.  
  
Indeed, the burglar looked about ready to punch Thorin in the face by the time the dwarf lord turned back to the rest of his company.  
  
“We have reclaimed Erebor, now we defend it,” Thorin pronounced before leading the other dwarves deep into the heart of the Lonely Mountain, bringing them to the great armory that had been left untouched since Smaug attacked.  
  
This was the true wealth of Erebor in the archer's eyes, the heirlooms of generations and the greatest masterworks that Durin’s Folk had ever made. Under better circumstances, Kíli could have spent hours unearthing these forgotten treasures – indeed, he sometimes had on nights when sleep just would not come – and many of the weapons uncovered now felt like long-lost friends.  
  
There was the armor that he had worn on the awful day when Erebor had fallen; there was the shield that had been broken by an Easterling's mace strike. His shattered knives and dented helmet were once more unblemished, hanging on the wall where they had lived for years.  
  
Kíli picked these items up and then set them aside, unwilling to trust anyone's life to such failed steel again. However, there was no shortage of other weapons to carry into battle, each of the dwarves searching out their preferred armaments. Axes for Glóin and a staff for Óin; a mace for Balin and a war hammer for his brother, while Dori's kin each took swords of their own and Bofur's tested half the arsenal. Fíli picked out the sharpest knives to slip into his belt while Kíli used his knowledge of this armory's hidden treasures to find the perfect blades for both their hands.  
  
The only one missing was Bilbo, their hobbit having slipped off somewhere in between the gate and the armory, and the once-king made a mental note to seek him out later on. The burglar's sword was as fine a weapon as he might wish for but Kíli would see him properly armored before he was banished, the dwarf keeping one eye open for a hobbit-sized helmet amidst the rest.  
  
Unfortunately, the archer could find neither that nor a bow to his liking, the wood failing to weather time as well as metal had. Those few that survived were not weapons that Kíli wished trust when his life was on the line and he spared one longing thought for the bow that he had left in Thranduil's hall.  
  
As it was, once-king would have to make do with sword and shield alone and while he felt somewhat naked without a bow on his shoulder, Kíli had to admit that the weapon was not well suited to a crowded battlefield. It certainly hadn't saved him last time, the ghost of memory weighing on the archer's shoulders as heavily as the armor that his brother handed him.  
  
These shadows only grew when Thorin donned his own armor, every shining piece making the dwarf lord seem more a stranger than he had before. This was not Thorin Oakenshield, this was the King Under the Mountain, and he was going to paint his lands with blood before his work was done.  
  
“Master Baggins! Come here!”  
  
Kíli turned to see his uncle standing at the entrance to the armory, motioning to someone standing in the passageway beyond. It was Bilbo and it seemed that the archer would not need to find him later because a very familiar coat of armor was dangling from Thorin's hands.  
  
While mithril had not saved their burglar before, it certainly could not hurt, and the weight on Kíli's shoulders became incrementally lighter when Bilbo shrugged the tunic on. He looked, well, a little silly and a little beautiful if the archer was being honest, though the hobbit seemed determined to focus on the silly part.  
  
“I look absurd. I'm not a warrior; I'm a hobbit,” Bilbo protested when he noticed the rest of the company watching him. He looked ready to say more, but before he could, Thorin dragged him off further down the corridor where Kíli and the others could not hear his words.  
  
However, the once-king could guess how the conversation went from the expressions on their faces, the hobbit's pleading and Thorin's twisted with suspicious avarice. He kept glancing back at the other dwarves as though expecting an assassination and it probably wouldn’t be long before he started accusing some of them outright. But as with the rest of the quest, time was moving faster now than it had in Kíli's memory, and the battle should begin before Thorin reached that point.  
  
It would begin and with Valar’s grace, the plight of his kindred would snap the dwarf lord free from madness where all other pleas had failed. Because the Lonely Mountain was the greatest stronghold of the dwarves for a reason and if she fell, the West would follow in her wake.  
  
There might not be a Shire for their hobbit to return to if Azog and his kin took hold of Erebor and this was a possibility that the once-king had not allowed himself to contemplate. It was a slim chance, yes, for Kíli was sure that Beorn would come in answer to his message – the pain that the skin-changer owed to Azog would demand that he seek vengeance – but there was a chance nonetheless. After all, even Beorn could not fight an entire army and enough arrows would bring an eagle down.  
  
So if Thorin did not join the fight; if he did not reinforce his allies when they began to weaken, the Lonely Mountain might fall to ruin once again. There might not be anyone left by the time the skin-changer came to save them and the once-king had seen firsthand how much difference a tiny change could make. They might lose this; they might lose this battle and thus the war and this thought kept Kíli from resting well that night.  
  
The few hours of sleep he managed were soaked with blood and carnage and eventually the archer gave up on sleep entirely. He took over the night watch from Bombur, figuring that he might as well put his insomnia to good use.  
  
At least this way Kíli's companions would be well-rested and he could watch out for their burglar as well. Because Bilbo was not with the others, which could only mean that he had chosen to steal the King's Jewel tonight. Indeed, there was a rope hanging over the edge of the gate when the dwarf walked the ramparts and their burglar was doubtlessly in the process of giving Bard the Arkenstone.  
  
So the once-king settled himself in an alcove where he could see both the gate and his companions without being detected and then tried not to think. Because Kíli couldn't plan for the battle until he saw his allies' forces and he had already done more than his fair share of worrying.  
  
Whether Thorin's company won or lost, the next two days would decide everything. Tomorrow the once-king's uncle would discover their burglar's theft and banish him; tomorrow Gandalf should arrive to take charge of Bilbo's safety and the dwarf could warn him of the coming army if the wizard did not know himself. If Gandalf did not send Bilbo away then, Kíli would have to tell him the truth of their hobbit's destiny and hope that he believed the archer's words. The burglar had to survive or none of this would matter and the once-king would be able to fight more fiercely knowing he was safe.  
  
Assuming, of course, that Thorin allowed his sister-sons to fight once Azog's host arrived the morning after next. But that problem too, Kíli must work on tomorrow, and he promised himself that he would find a way.  
  
 _Fuck it. For all I know, Beorn and the eagles will arrive at dawn and Azog's army will run away in fear. I've done what I could to prepare and whatever I must do tomorrow will not be aided by a night spent fretting here. So close your eyes, stop thinking, and get some goddamned sleep._  
  
And wonder of wonders, Kíli did exactly that.  
  
He was roused from his doze the next morning by the rustle of Bilbo returning to the mountain, his footsteps audible even if he could not be seen. So Kíli waited until the hobbit had lain down again before heading to the gate to check on their visitors. A quick glance over the wall informed the once-king that Thranduil and Bard were already headed toward Erebor and so the dwarf ran to wake the rest of his companions before the elves arrived.  
  
Thus their former allies were met at the gate with the full might of Thorin’s company, thirteen dwarves and one small hobbit against several thousand strong. It should have been ludicrous but Kíli felt only a sick sense of anticipation as his uncle’s arrow shattered on the stone at Thranduil’s feet.  
  
“I will put the next one between your eyes,” the dwarf lord warned,Thranduil responding to this threat with a sea of elvish longbows aimed at Thorin's head. However, while the rest of the company sensibly took cover, Thorin didn’t flinch. One might fault his uncle’s honor but Kíli couldn’t fault his courage and even the elf king looked a tiny bit impressed.  
  
“We have come to tell you, payment of your debt has been offered and accepted,” Thranduil said, returning Thorin's glare with a cold stare of his own.  
  
“What payment? I gave you nothing. You have **nothing**!”  
  
“We have this!” Bard reached into his tunic and pulled out the Arkenstone, the gem shining just as bright as that which had lived above Kíli's throne for years.  
  
“They have the Arkenstone. Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house?” the once-king shouted, asking a question that he already knew the answer to. But Thorin didn't and the more extreme his uncle's response to this betrayal, the farther their burglar would run.  
  
“That stone belongs to the king!”  
  
“And the king may have it with our good will,” the bowman called back in answer, standing firm despite Thorin's murderous glare. “But first he must honor his word.”  
  
A fair enough bargain for one built on theft and treachery. However, if Bard was truly expecting the dwarf lord to agree so easily, he was doomed to disappointment once again. Because Thorin was close to frothing with his fury and his answer was spoken more as curse than words. “They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse, a filthy _lie_.”  
  
He was not willing to believe it, that the treasure he had been searching for so desperately could be in the possession of his enemies. This was the birthright of his people, the jewel that would crown him the true King of Carven Stone, and to see it in Bard's hands was unthinkable. “The Arkenstone is in this mountain. It is a trick!”  
  
However, the company did not need Kíli's knowledge to realize that Thorin was mistaken for even Thranduil could not have faked the mountain's heart. He could not have faked the glow or the way it sung to Mahal's children and it was only the dragon-sickness that let their king deny its song.  
  
But before any of the dwarves could speak this truth, Bilbo did it for them, the company watching in shock as their burglar stepped forward and announced, “It's no trick; the stone is real. I gave it to them.”  
  
For a moment Thorin did not react, staring at the hobbit as though seeing a stranger in his place. It seemed that Kíli's uncle truly did care for Bilbo somewhere beneath the madness because his voice was almost pleading when he whispered, “You?”  
  
“I took it as my fourteenth share,” the burglar told him, an awkward shrug and smile trying to defuse the dwarf lord's pain. But it was no use and the company could only stand there helpless while Thorin's hurt twisted into rage.  
  
“ _You_ would steal from _me_?”  
  
“Steal from you? No,” Bilbo contradicted with a shake of his head. “No, I may be a burglar but I like to think I'm an honest one. I am willing to let it stand against my claim.”  
  
A logical argument, perhaps, and the hobbit could have made a case for his actions under any other circumstance. But logic had no place here; no contract could weigh against the dwarf lord's crazed possession and indeed, Thorin's answer held only hate. “Against your claim. Your _claim_? You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!”  
  
“I was going to give it to you; many times I wanted to,” Bilbo replied. “But...”  
  
“But what, thief?!”  
  
“You are changed, Thorin. The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word; would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin.”  
  
The hobbit was begging now, pleading for the dwarf lord to regain his senses, and watching him, all Kíli could think was, _This is what it looks like when a heart bursts beyond repair._  
  
Here was grief in living color, and in this instant, the once-king hated the Valar more than he had ever hated anyone. Because Bolg might have destroyed his family, but the orc was only doing what was in his nature and he would have treated any member of Durin's line the same. That had not been personal, but this was; this was Kaminzabdûna reaching into Kíli's chest and crushing his heart within her hands. This was Mahal's Lady telling the once-king that his love had burned the future and apparently the answer was to break both their hearts instead.  
  
Or perhaps three hearts in truth, for Thorin's voice was choked with grief when he replied, “Do not speak to me of loyalty.”  
  
The dwarf lord didn't know how to respond to this betrayal, his mind clearly reeling from this sudden sucker punch. Thorin had thought that Bilbo was trustworthy, the only member of his company who would not betray him, and yet it was the hobbit who had stabbed him in the back. But whatever sorrow Kíli's uncle was feeling, he had ever been the type to mask his pain with anger, and the once-king remembered well how this argument had ended in the past.  
  
Indeed, the rage in Thorin's eyes only grew stronger, hate building within him like the molten core of a fire mountain until the dwarf lord roared: “Throw him from the ramparts!”  
  
But no one moved a muscle then, the rest of the company too shocked to do anything at all. The hobbit was their friend; he had traveled with them through danger and through hardship, and even if he had stolen the Arkenstone, Bilbo had also saved Thorin's life more than once.  
  
The dwarf lord owed their burglar the chance to leave with dignity; the hobbit had earned that much with his bravery in the defense of Durin's Folk. But Thorin did not care about the dishonor of ignoring such a life debt; he only cared about his hatred now. Indeed, the dwarves' refusal to follow his order only made Kíli's uncle angrier until he finally turned his curses on his kindred and moved to throw Bilbo from the battlements himself.  
  
Now the other dwarves did act, rushing forward to stop their leader before he christened his kingdom with atrocity. However, Thorin's strength was fueled by hate and madness and despite his sister-sons' best efforts, they could not pry their burglar from his hands.  
  
Instead the dwarf lord dragged Bilbo to the edge of the battlements, muttering fell curses as Bard and Thranduil watched in shock. Thorin denounced them all: his friends, his family, his hobbit, and the meddlesome wizard who had forced this burglar upon his company. The wizard who must save Bilbo from Kíli's uncle, though Gandalf waited long enough that the once-king was preparing to do something drastic when the wizard’s voice finally boomed over them.  
  
“If you do not like my burglar then do not damage him! Return him to me,” Gandalf ordered, the command in his voice forcing Thorin back a step. “You're not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you Thorin, son of Thráin?”  
  
This question made the dwarf lord snarl, his sister-sons taking advantage of his shock to pull Bilbo back to safety once again. They handed the hobbit off to Bofur, who escorted their burglar over to the edge of the wall. The rope that Bilbo had used last night was still attached there and he descended quickly, running over to stand by Gandalf before Thorin could try to strike him down.  
  
However, even the new King Under the Mountain was not mad enough to leave the safety of his walls when an armed host stood at his door. Instead, he just glared down at the interlopers as he shouted further insults upon the heads of Gandalf and his former burglar.  
  
“Never again will I have dealings with wizards or treacherous Shire rats!” Thorin bellowed, Bilbo flinching at every word.  
  
But it seemed that Bard and Thranduil had finally tired of watching this drama play out before them or perhaps the bowman had found a trace of kindness in his heart for Bilbo now that the hobbit had lost his friends in service of Laketown's cause.  
  
Whatever the reason, the man drew Thorin’s attention away from the hobbit with a shout, “Are we resolved? The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised. Give us your answer. Will you have peace or war?!”  
  
The entire world seemed to hold its breath for a moment while the gathered armies waited for Thorin's answer, the words that would give them either death or wealth untold. Even Kíli found himself growing strangely nervous when his uncle did not speak, though he already knew what the dwarf's response should be: a reluctant agreement to give up his gold tomorrow even as he made plans to drive off both elves and men when Dáin arrived. But maybe the once-king had missed something, some clue that would make this battle begin differently than it had before.  
  
Indeed, the once-king had missed something, though it was not a change that he could have prepared for. Because Thorin was stalling for time and when the first rays of sunlight above the eastern hills brought with them a raven, the dwarf lord gave Bard a feral smirk.  
  
“I will have _war_ ,” Thorin growled as the ranks of Dáin's army began to crest the rise. Row upon row of dwarven warriors marching steadily toward the valley, the Lord of the Iron Hills and his armored boar riding out in front.  
  
Instantly Thranduil turned his elves to the east to face these new arrivals, the men of Laketown rushing to follow in their wake. The three lords squared off while Thorin's company cheered their reinforcements, their cause no longer quite as hopeless as it had been.  
  
Kíli raised his voice with the others though his mind was racing, wondering if the orcs would arrive soon enough to stop this madness now. The dwarf never thought that he would be praying for Azog to attack them but Dáin should not have arrived so quickly – _damn my messenger_ – and the Defiler must appear before any allied blood was spilled. There were some things that a king could not forgive and if a single elf fell to dwarvish steel then there would never be peace between Erebor and Mirkwood after this. Kíli needed either orcs or Gandalf to talk his allies down.  
  
“Good morning. How are we all?” Dáin shouted once his army was in position, the Lord of the Iron Hills exactly as he was in the once-king's memories. But then again, Thorin's cousin had always been a force of nature and even the Valar could not alter a dwarrow such as that.  
  
Indeed, Dáin didn't seem remotely daunted by the army ranged before him, the dwarf lord meeting Thranduil's cold stare with a fierce glare of his own. “I have a wee proposition, if you wouldn't mind giving me a few moments of your time. Would you consider... just **sodding off**?! All of you! **Right now!** ”  
  
Dáin's shout caused a ripple in the ranks before him, the men of Laketown not quite so courageous when faced with an army instead of Thorin's small company. But Bard bolstered his people with a firm, “Stand fast,” while Gandalf stepped into the gap.  
  
“Come now, Lord Dáin,” the wizard began, his conciliatory smile audible even to Thorin's company.  
  
“Gandalf the Grey,” the dwarf lord greeted scornfully, though he kept his gaze fixed on Thranduil when he spoke. “Tell this rabble to leave or I'll water the ground with their blood!”  
  
While this was a rather typical statement on Dáin's part and one that the dwarves of Erebor could not help but cheer for, Kíli wasn't exactly pleased to hear it now. He couldn't understand why Gandalf was not warning his allies about Azog and his army and it was going to be rather difficult for his allies to prepare for the coming battle if Dáin and Thranduil were trying to bash in each other's skulls.  
  
But then the wizard spoke exactly the words that the once-king had been hoping for. “There is no need for war between dwarves, men and elves! A legion of orcs marches on the mountain. Stand your army down!”  
  
Gandalf spoke these words and yet it did _nothing_ to sway the dwarf lord's mind. Perhaps Dáin did not believe him; perhaps he was simply too filled with hate to care.  
  
“I'll not stand down for any elf,” the dwarf lord shouted. “Not least this faithless woodland sprite. He wishes nothing but ill on my people. If he chooses to stand between me and my kin, I'll split his pretty head **open**! See if he's still smirking then.”  
  
 _Of course he’s smirking,_ Kíli thought with a sigh, fighting the urge to beat his forehead against the stone. This was like watching a mine collapse in slow motion, the once-king knowing the disaster that awaited but unable to stop it from happening. _Because this day just can’t get any better, Thranduil has to sit there smirking while Azog moves his army into position and prepares to kills us all. He’ll be smirking when I pass into the halls of my forefathers and he’ll probably still be smirking when Mahal calls us to renew this world._  
  
The once-king was too busy grumbling to catch Thranduil’s response to Dáin's insults, but whatever the elf said, it was not diplomatic in the least. It couldn’t have been since the dwarf lord took it as a cry to battle, spinning his war pig around and shouting, “You hear that, lads? We're on. Let's give these bastards a good hammering.”  
  
With this, Dáin's generals began to order his warriors forward but the dwarves of the Iron Hills had hardly taken a step before the ground began to rumble, this sudden earthquake threatening to knock both armies off their feet.  
  
Only it wasn’t an earthquake, the shaking growing stronger and stronger until enormous creatures burst out of the hills to the south. These were the great wheel worms of Angmar, earth-eaters in the orcish tongue, and Kíli had never thought to see them in the flesh. Such creatures were said to have been destroyed when Thranduil’s armies overran the northern kingdom in a far older age, but it seemed that the tale spinners had been wrong.  
  
In this timeline at least the worms had survived the fall of Angmar and so allowed Azog to move his army into position beneath the earth. That is why Kíli's raven had not seen them, though ranks upon rank of orcs were spilling out into the valley now.  
  
From his vantage point upon the gate, the once-king could see that the Defiler had brought a whole host of evil creatures to stand against the Lonely Mountain: goblins, orcs and ogres armed for war. It was a host that Erebor and her allies were not prepared for and the once-king cursed whatever twist of fate had taken his last day from him.  
  
Dáin, Thranduil, and Bard were supposed to have time to plan out their defenses; Bilbo was supposed to be miles away from here not standing in the middle of the battlefield. Indeed, the Lonely Mountain's eventual victory had depended much on their position, Thranduil taking the high ground of Raven Hill with his elven archers and raining death down from above. Yet it was Azog who had claimed those ruined towers now, the pale orc signaling his army to attack as he waited out the fight.  
  
However, Dáin was considered one of their people’s finest warriors for a reason and this new assault did not leave him reeling very long.  
  
“The hordes of hell are upon us. To battle! To battle, sons of Durin,” the dwarf lord shouted, his army marching around the elves to meet the orcish charge.  
  
His warriors moved as one, sprinting forward and then slamming their shields into the ground to create the Shield Wall for which the Iron Hills were known. This barrier of steel and razor-edged pikes had served them well in many battles, but all the once-king could think about was how few his kindred seemed against the coming horde. They were sorely outnumbered and to make matters worse, the elves had yet to move.  
  
Thranduil was just sitting there, watching the dwarves from the back of his elk, and Kíli truly did not know what he would do. Because he could not believe that the elf king would turn away from this battle; he did not want to believe it when his ally had been unforgiving but fair through all their dealings in the past. Yet Thranduil was still not moving and Kíli almost couldn’t bear to look.  
  
But then, just before the orcs reached the dwarvish Shield Wall, the elven army surged forward, leaping over the backs of Dáin's warriors to dance death upon their foes.  
  
“I'm going over the wall; who's coming with me?” Fíli shouted on seeing the battle joined, his brother speaking the thought in his companions' minds aloud. For they could hardly let their kindred go to war without them and Kíli turned to look at his uncle hopefully.  
  
If everything else in this lifetime was moving so much faster, why should Thorin not throw off his dragon-sickness now and thus reduce their allies’ casualties? But it seemed that time only ran more quickly when it was not in the once-king's favor because the dwarf lord stopped his companions in their tracks with a growled, “Stand down!”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Are we to do nothing?” Fíli protested, Dwalin and Bofur nodding their agreement at his side. Kíli's brother was staring at their uncle with something like betrayal, his loyalty tested to its limits by the other dwarf's command.  
  
“I said, stand down!” Thorin shouted over all further protests, his eyes promising death to anyone who disobeyed. Then the dwarf lord turned away from the battle as though it did not matter anymore.  
  
His company could have left then; any one of them could have climbed down the same rope as Bilbo and joined Dáin's warriors in their fight. Indeed, several of Kíli's companions clearly wished to do just that and yet they all stood motionless. Because Thorin was their king as well as kinsman and to disobey him now was something that they could not do. Loyalty was in their bones, built into them by the hands of Mahal, and they did not know who they were if they were not Thorin's company.  
  
Of them all, only Kíli might have disobeyed the dwarf lord without flinching and one glance at Fíli told him that he would be staying here instead. His brother didn't have the once-king's long years upon the throne to harden him against their uncle's disapproval or the promise of a future outside of Erebor to lighten his banishment.  
  
So the dwarf took one last glance at the battlefield, watching as the men of Laketown ran toward Dale with Gandalf and Bilbo in their midst.  
  
“Be safe,” Kíli murmured, promising himself that he would come to their aid as soon as he was able to do so with his uncle and his brother at his side. Then the once-king turned away and followed the rest of his companions back into the depths of Erebor.  
  



	11. Preamble - Part IV

The archer had never been very good at waiting. He had neither the patience nor the temperament for standing by when action might be called for and becoming the King Under the Mountain had not changed this basic feature of his personality.  
  
Waiting like this – with the sounds of battle raging on outside the gate and the knowledge of his helplessness burning in his gut – this was torture on the once-king's heart and mind. This was guilt and self-hatred clawing at his chest, a sick sense of dishonor that was a far cry from Kíli's memories. But in the archer's previous lifetime, Thorin's company had waited to join their kindred for strategic reasons instead of cowardice.  
  
The dwarf lord had been with them then; he had promised that they would fight as soon as the right moment came and he had delivered on his vow. Indeed, the Thorin that Kíli had known in the past was a very different dwarf than the one who had disappeared down the tunnel to Erebor's throne room and not returned again.  
  
So while the once-king had endured worse than this before – _months_ of worse until the Lonely Mountain fell – he soon found himself pacing fitfully. Twenty steps across the open space before the gate and back again as his thoughts went round and round.  
  
Kíli was terrified that Bilbo would die before Thorin regained his senses and the once-king could join his hobbit on the battlefield. Even the reminder that Gandalf and Bilbo were together didn't stop the dwarf from worrying and the rest of his companions wearing expressions just as grim.  
  
The dwarves had removed their gleaming armor after climbing down from the gate: gold-plated helmets, gauntlets and greaves thrown down to the stone in disgust. The treasures of Erebor's great armory might as well be tin if they could not be used and Kíli kicked his helmet out of the way with a curse on his next lap of the hall.  
  
Ori looked up at the sound, the other dwarf opening his mouth as though to say something before sagging back down without a word instead. He had been writing again, passing the time as best he could just as his companions did the same.  
  
Indeed, Ori's brothers were sitting near him, Dori fretting and Nori tossing rocks from hand to hand. Glóin had pulled out his whetstone again, Óin was searching through his herb pouches, and Fíli glared down at the stone. Balin slumped in exhaustion by his brother while Dwalin just stared pensively after Thorin, the old warrior's expression as close to heartbroken as it had ever been. Meanwhile Bifur carved, Bombur moped, and Bofur watched Dáin and his allies from the top of the wall.  
  
The miner was calling down updates whenever the tide of battle shifted, Kíli torn between joining Bofur and covering his ears. Because every word seemed to paint a bleaker picture of their allies' chances, Bofur's descriptions lighting a fire in the once-king's mind.  
  
Not panic but a grief-tinged fury, a driving need to somehow make things right. He needed to do something - _anything_ to stop the Battle of the Five Armies from ending in defeat instead of victory.  
  
Kíli kept hoping to hear a shout of “eagles” from Bofur's lips, some news that would let the dwarf breathe easy once again. However, there was naught but death and slaughter, the miner's shouts becoming few and far between as Dáin's army was driven back toward Erebor. Eventually Bofur turned away from the battle, climbing down from the barricade and collapsing next to his kin with a choked-off sob.  
  
“Dáin is surrounded,” the other dwarf whispered, his usual boundless optimism nowhere to be seen. What elves and orcs and stone giants had not managed to extinguish, the Battle of the Five Armies had broken easily, and at this realization, Kíli could not hold back the maelstrom of his emotions anymore.  
  
“We cannot do this!” the once-king burst out, stopping in front of Balin as he turned pleading eyes upon his company. “We cannot sit here hiding while our brethren lose this war.”  
  
“We have no other choice, lad. Thorin will not listen,” Balin replied wearily, rubbing one hand across his face.  
  
“Then we make him listen. We make him listen or we join the fight without him. Twelve more warriors can still make a difference on the battlefield.”  
  
“That may be true but your uncle has forbidden us from leaving Erebor and his word is law,” the old dwarf answered, his voice riddled with defeat. “To defy him is to defy everything that unites our people – everything that makes us Khazâd.”  
  
“But he’s wrong!” Kíli cried in frustration. “You all know that Thorin’s wrong. He is sick with greed and dragon-madness and his actions bring dishonor on us all. There is a battle outside these walls; one in which our kindred are fighting and dying while our _king_ sits on his marble throne and broods upon his wrongs. Better to disobey and fight then let our allies lose this battle and maybe Erebor as well. Thorin will forgive us when his mind returns.”  
  
The archer's words echoed harshly from the stone, a ringing cry to arms. But when Kíli looked around the hall at his companions, none of them would meet his eyes. They were ashamed; the once-king could see it on their faces. They were ashamed because Kíli spoke the truth and they were going to refuse him anyway.  
  
For honor, for loyalty, for cowardice – the reason did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the other dwarves' actions and the archer's anger transmuted into desperation when no one moved at all.  
  
“Fíli, please. I can’t… I have to help them,” the once-king begged, turning to the one person who had never let him down. “You know the duty that I carry and it does not stand behind these walls. I thought it could but I was wrong.”  
  
“I know, brother, and if you choose to go, I will not allow anyone to speak ill upon your name,” Fíli answered, raising his head to meet his brother's eyes, and what Kíli saw there sent a stab of foreboding through his heart. “But what you ask now is different than defying our uncle back in Laketown. That was a family matter and this… this is treason and I cannot cross that line. As Thorin’s heir, I cannot disobey his orders and lead this company into battle, not unless I mean to take his crown.”  
  
His brother's voice was pained, but firm, the voice of someone who did not like his options but would stand by his choice at any cost. Kíli knew that voice, it was the voice of duty and position, and it had spilled from his own lips for years.  
  
So the archer did not try to argue the point any further – he was more likely to win Azog's hand in marriage than to change Fíli's stubborn mind – and with neither Balin nor his brother, Thorin's company was lost. They were trapped by their loyalty and their traditions and if the once-king left this mountain, he would be doing it alone.  
  
“Shukêl! Kaminzabdûna cast rust upon your blades!” Kíli cursed, sending one last glare toward his companions before sinking down onto the floor in defeat. “Valar save us all,” he whispered. “May the Valar save us all.”  
  
There was silence for a long moment; guilt and shame and failure thickening the air. But perhaps the archer's words had struck deeper than he'd realized for the silence was broken by an unexpected voice.  
  
“You may be wrong, laddie, but you are also right,” Dwalin said quietly. “We dishonor your uncle by allowing his mistakes to go unchecked. I do not know if I can reach Thorin beneath the dragon-sickness, but I will have no one say I did not try.”  
  
With this, the warrior climbed to his feet and disappeared into the mountain, the once-king staring after him in open shock. Dwalin was the last dwarf that Kíli would have expected to challenge Thorin; he loved the dwarf lord too much to ever wish him harm. But maybe that was the point. Maybe Dwalin loved Kíli's uncle enough to speak the harsh truths that he so dearly needed to hear and the once-king prayed that Thorin's oldest friend would succeed where his sister-son and his burglar had let the Valar down.  
  
However, when Dwalin returned some minutes later, he returned without Thorin and the tears in his eyes told the archer everything.  
  
“There is no king beneath the mountain,” the warrior declared before sitting down and burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with sorrow, the rest of the company turning away so that Dwalin could mourn his dear friend privately.  
  
But even as Kíli's heart ached for the warrior's pain, it ached for his failure more. Because Thorin was still lost to them, lost to gold and dragon-madness and soon the once-king would have to make the choice that he had been avoiding from the start. Soon he would have to choose between his family and his duty and as much as the archer hated to admit it, he knew which one would win.  
  
For he had been the Lord of Silver Fountains and the King of Carven Stone; he had built greatness from the ashes of his sorrow and he had fought against his enemies until his last breath choked on blood. Throne or not, that dwarf still lived within him, and he would not let fear turned his path aside. Kíli would fight these orcs as he had fought their past incarnations; he would slay Azog as he had slain the pale orc's son.  
  
Or the dwarf would die. If terror and memory stole the once-king's senses in the midst of battle then he would die but at least he would die with a weapon in his hands. At least he would die with honor instead of cowardice.  
  
So Kíli opened his mouth to tell Fíli that he was leaving, ignoring the way that his heart shuddered at the thought. However, before the dwarf could speak, a shadow moved across the sun. It was Thorin, the dwarf lord striding toward his company like some conquering hero from the tales of old and at the sight, the once-king's temper snapped. Kíli's uncle had no right to act as though his deeds were righteous, not when his kindred's lifeblood stained the ground outside his door.  
  
“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight _our_ battles _**for us**_!” Kíli shouted in sudden fury, rising to his feet and moving to meet the dwarf lord in the center of the hall. “It is not in my blood, Thorin.”  
  
 _I could not do it then and I will not do it now, not when I know the cost of cowardice. We must win this battle or see our futures burn forever and I cannot watch our people die again._  
  
These words came out more honest than the once-king had intended, perhaps the most honest thing that he had said to Thorin since he died. But his uncle did not try to strike him down for the challenge as Kíli half expected, instead reaching out to clasp the archer's shoulder with one hand.  
  
“No, it is not. We are sons of Durin and Durin's Folk do flee from a fight,” Thorin said, his eyes clear for the first time in days. Indeed, the dwarf lord's smile was heartbreakingly familiar and Kíli couldn’t help but answer it in turn. Because this was his uncle instead of the shadowed king who had been haunting Erebor's deep halls of treasure, and the archer had begun to fear that he would never see this dwarf again.  
  
So the once-king felt no shame in crying, his eyes damp with tears as Thorin pressed their heads together gently and then turned to the remainder of his company. “I have no right to ask this of any of you, but will you follow me one last time?”  
  
There could only be one answer to this question, the dwarves of Erebor standing to join their king once more. They took up their weapons and marched to the gate, Thorin laying out his plan in hurried words. For the dwarves were racing against time now, every wasted minute one that Dáin did not have to spare, and they could not stop to dismantle their barricade properly. Instead Thorin told his companions to seize one of Thrór's great golden statues, the dwarves tearing it from its base and hoisting it into the air with pulleys to make a battering ram. Then the dwarf lord ordered Bombur to signal their intentions to both friend and enemy. So Bombur climbed to the battlements with one of Erebor's enormous battle horns thrown over his shoulders, the deep notes ringing out across the plain as the advancing orcs stumbled to a halt in surprise.  
  
The dwarves' enemies did not know exactly what Bombur signaled but they knew that it meant trouble and they had not expected any more resistance now. Indeed, Azog had promised his warriors that they would feast on man-flesh and drink the blood of elves like wine and they could taste this victory when the sons of Durin began their final charge.  
  
The enormous statue slammed through the gate in a shower of rock and stone, Thorin's company charging across the rubble to meet their enemy. The ranks of Dáin's army opened to let the dwarves pass through before falling in behind them, the warriors of the Iron Hills rallying behind their rightful king. They formed a wedge with Thorin at its head and his sister-sons only steps behind him, the dwarves' swords raised high as they joined their voices to their uncle's battle cry.  
  
“Du bekâr! Du bekâr!” the King Under the Mountain shouted.  
  
“Du bekâr!” his army roared in answer, a hundred thrown spears taking Azog's ogres down. Then the dwarves slammed into the orcish line with a crack like thunder, axe and sword rending blood and bone. While this rally was not without its price, it was a price that the warriors of the Iron Hills would gladly pay for king and country and Azog's orcs carried no such loyalty.  
  
Indeed their courage soon began to falter in the face of Thorin's fury, the dwarf lord and his cousin carving themselves a clear space to breathe upon the field. It did Kíli good to see Dáin and Thorin reunited – the Lord of the Iron Hills one of the few dwarrows who made his uncle appear small – and the archer knocked his shoulder into Fíli's with a grin. Kíli's arm might be aching and his armor stained black with the blood of his enemies, but that was nothing compared to the exultation in his heart. For he was fighting side by side with his brother and while the battle was not yet over, the once-king could finally see the path to victory.  
  
They were so close, one more push to drive the orcs into Esgaroth and then sweep this valley clean. For the men and elves had rallied with them, Azog's forces spilling from the walls of Dale until Kíli was reassured that he did not need to worry about his hobbit’s safety anymore.  
  
However, the archer could not relax until every enemy had fallen and it worried him that he had not seen Bolg upon the field. The orc would never have missed the chance to kill the sons of Durin any more than Azog would admit defeat as long as he still breathed.  
  
It was not in his nature and Thorin would not have trusted surrender were it offered on a shield of mithril shining bright. Indeed, the Battle of the Five Armies would not be over until the Defiler had fallen and his corpse left for the crows to feast. This was strategy as much as hatred and when Thorin set his sights on Raven Hill, Kíli knew that he couldn't stop the coming fight. However, the once-king was not going to let his uncle to face Azog without assistance and he fully intended to stab the pale orc in the back at the first opportunity.  
  
So when Thorin strode forward to mount one of Dáin's armored war rams, his sister-sons were right there with him, the archer moved by his purpose and Fíli by loyalty. To tell the truth, Kíli was slightly surprised that the rams had survived this long into the battle, but perhaps Dáin had been keeping them in reserve for such a contingency. Whatever the reason, be it luck or careful planning, the once-king could not deny that the animals would be useful now.  
  
Kíli swung into the saddle quickly, Fíli and Dwalin mounting their own rams while his uncle waited impatiently. Indeed, the dwarves were barely seated before Thorin growled, “I'm going to kill that piece of filth,” and kicked his ram into a run.  
  
The dwarf lord's companions followed quickly, tearing off across the battlefield toward Azog’s perch on high. The remaining orcs scattered before the rams like leaves before a winter gale storm, those who did not move fast enough trampled under hooves and steel.  
  
Soon the dwarves were climbing the side of Raven Hill, their mounts racing up the steep stone steps as though on open plain instead. For these were mountain rams, bred to scale the rocky crags and snow-capped peaks that crowned Dáin's kingdom, and when Kíli decided to take a shortcut, his ram climbed these icy boulders just as easily.  
  
However, while their approach was swift, it was hardly silent, and when the dwarves reached the top of the hill, a band of orcs was waiting there. They roared a challenge even as Fíli leaped from the back of his ram into battle and his brother followed, the once-king ducking and weaving as his blade carved through his enemies. But these orcs were better trained than those down in the valley or perhaps Kíli and the others were simply growing tired because it took several minutes before the dwarves managed to cut their last foe down.  
  
Thorin’s sword slammed this orc into the stone with a vicious crack and when the dwarf lord looked for his next target, there was none to be found. Indeed the fortifications on Raven Hill appeared to be deserted, the pale orc’s signal flags left handing limply upon the highest tower and no sound to be heard but the dwarves’ own panting breaths.  
  
“Where is he?” Thorin snarled.  
  
“Looks empty; I think Azog has fled,” Kíli replied, knowing that the words would make him seem foolish but unable not to try.  
  
The Defiler’s refusal to meet the once-king's uncle on equal terms could only mean he had a plan to turn this battle in his favor and if Thorin was sensible, he would wait Azog out instead of charging headfirst into whatever trap his foe had set. But while the line of Durin had always been known for its courage, prudence was a much rarer trait.  
  
“No, I don't think so. He is here,” Thorin said, denying Kíli's hopes with a firm shake of his head. However, the other dwarf must have learned some caution from his last encounter with the Defiler for he did not charge into the ruins to seek out his enemy.  
  
Instead the dwarf lord turned to his sister-sons and ordered, “Fíli, take your brother and scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage; do you understand?”  
  
These words sent a chill of foreboding through Kíli's mind even as his brother nodded his agreement with the plan. Splitting their group was a bad idea when they did not know where Azog was hiding and the once-king would never forgive himself if Thorin died without him there. But the archer had barely opened his mouth to object when goblins began to spill over the northern fortifications and his chance passed by.  
  
Because his brother was already moving as their uncle shouted, “Go! Go! We'll take care of them,” and Kíli could not allow himself to be left behind. So he ran after Fíli, the two dwarves stepping carefully onto the frozen lake that stood between them and their goal.  
  
The ice was slick but thick enough that Kíli did not fear it cracking and the archer moved quickly once he found his feet. Though his brother was only a step behind him when the once-king reached the base of the first tower, Fíli moving to take point as they began to climb.  
  
At first the dwarves found nothing but dust and footprints, a few bits of flint and leather the only evidence that Azog's warriors had passed this way. However, the once-king did not find these empty chambers reassuring, his nerves winding tighter with every step they took. For if the Defiler was not lying in wait here then he might already be attacking Thorin and Kíli needed to be present when that battle came.  
  
However, just as the archer was about to suggest retreating, he saw a light down the tunnel up ahead, the red glow of torchlight reflecting from the stone. Then there was noise, the dull thump of booted feet and the deep vibration of war drums telling Kíli that they'd found their enemy.  
  
So the dwarf started forward, eager to take out this force before Azog could threaten his uncle or his brother once again. They should strike hard and strike quickly, any thought of reinforcement forgotten in a sudden surge of hate. It was time to end this, end the feud that had stolen everything that the once-king loved on Middle Earth.  
  
However, Kíli's attack was brought up short by Fíli before he could take more than a single step down the tunnel, his brother's hand warm against his chest. It was this living heat that snapped the once-king from his anger, Fíli's safety more important than his hatred and not served by recklessness.  
  
“No, stay here. Search the lower levels,” Fíli ordered as he pushed the archer back, clearly thinking along similar lines as Kíli now. “I've got this.”  
  
 _As if,_ the archer snorted, taking a deep breath to tell his brother exactly what he thought of such stupidity. For while the once-king had been willing to fight without Fíli when he had no other options, he had no intention of leaving the other dwarf alone to face their enemies. He might be Fíli's little brother, but he was no dwarrowling and everything about this encounter screamed out trap to him.  
  
So Kíli was going to refuse; he was going to drag Fíli back to Thorin's side and make him stay there this time around. No more heroics, no more sacrifice, and no more dying now.  
  
Kíli was going to refuse, but then he met his brother's eyes. In that gaze, the once-king saw love and worry and a fierce determination and suddenly he realized that nothing would turn Fíli's heart aside. This insight struck him sharply, as though someone had placed the thought within his mind, and once it was there, Kíli could not seem to root it out.  
  
He tried, Valar knew he tried, but his every attempt to doubt only made this certainty grow stronger as Fíli stared at him steadily. For how could the once-king deny his brother when this was the heart of what he loved about him, the other dwarf's endless selflessness when it came to those he loved. Indeed, the archer had always known that Fíli would protect him, that Fíli would be there to soothe his hurts and guard his back in battle, and this is exactly what his brother was trying to do now. Only it was supposed to be Kíli's turn to save Fíli and he couldn't hold back a growl of frustration at his older brother's streak of sacrifice.  
  
Yet Fíli had not left him any other options because the once-king would have to knock out the other dwarf to change his course and that was no choice at all. That would be doing their enemies' work for them and the fight that was coming would be difficult enough.  
  
The longer that Kíli thought upon his choices, the greater his surety that he must do as Fíli asked. After all, his brother was a skilled warrior and far more cautious than most of their kindred, and the fear that this parting stirred within the archer was a pale and distant thing. Indeed, it was the barest echo of the panic which had paralyzed his heart within the Lonely Mountain, coming to Kíli through a veil of battle-rage and bone-deep certainty.  
  
This more than anything swayed the once-king's decision, though even now, he would not tempt the fates with a farewell. To say goodbye was to tell the fates that he and Fíli would not be reunited and that could not be allowed. Because his brother was going to scout out Azog’s forces and then return with Kíli to their uncle, the sons of Durin facing their enemies together as they were meant to do.  
  
So with one last curse, the archer turned his back on his brother, moving to search the lower levels as Fíli had asked. He would do this for his brother: trust the other dwarf to complete their mission and then never let the self-sacrificing idiot out of his sight again.  
  
 _Just a few minutes and then we’ll be reunited,_ Kíli promised himself before turning his thoughts back to the job at hand. He might not be happy about searching the rest of the tower without Fíli, but he would not allow his frustration to stop him from protecting his brother properly. So the dwarf entered each chamber with his blade at the ready, determined to keep their exit clear.  
  
However, the lower levels were just as empty as the higher floors had been and the longer that the once-king spent without his brother, the louder the voices grew within his head. He shouldn’t have left Fíli; _why the fuck did I leave Fíli?_ the archer asked himself. Despite his brother's skill with sword and dagger, the other dwarf could not hope to stand against Azog without assistance even if Bolg appeared to have forgotten about his father’s war this time around.  
  
Indeed Kíli's certainty was disappearing as quickly as it had come upon him, the veil pulled back to reveal the blinding terror beneath. But just when the once-king had decided to go back for his brother, he stepped out of the tower and heard a voice that froze his blood.  
  
Someone was shouting in Black Speech far above him and while the archer could not understand every word through the rush of wind around the tower, he knew that Azog had appeared. The Defiler was challenging his uncle and the dwarf had to be there when they began their final fight. Yet some dark premonition kept Kíli's feet sealed to the stone when he should have been tracking down his brother, the archer unable to stop himself from listening.  
  
“This one dies… Then you, Oakenshield,” the wind whispered to him, Azog’s words almost a caress against his ear. “Here ends your filthy bloodline!”  
  
There was a noise then, a choked off cry that could not be what it had sounded like. Because Fíli was safe; he was safe and on his way back to his brother, the once-king was sure of it. Yet something was falling from the tower, a dark shape that Kíli could not quite make out against the sharp brightness of the sky.  
  
Perhaps one of Azog's orcs had stepped too close to the edge of the tower, though the silhouette seemed somewhat small for that. Small and blond and wearing dwarvish chainmail, but not Fíli, not like this.  
  
It was a lie, an awful trick, and yet Kíli knew his brother; he knew his brother’s face better than he knew his own reflection and his eyes told him that was Fíli falling there. That was his _brother_ and when the body landed at his feet with a sick crunch, the archer could not deny it anymore.  
  
This was death that lay bleeding on the stone before him; this was death wearing his brother’s face once more. For Kíli knew far too well what Fíli looked like when the life had left his body and his brother's spirit had long since fled this world. There would be no last words to see the once-king through his sorrow, no last farewell in which to beg forgiveness, just this sudden ending to their tale. Yet while the pit of grief within his chest was far too familiar, it was shame that choked his breath because Kíli had been given a second chance and he had failed his brother anyway.  
  
The once-king should not have left him; he should have kept Fíli by his side at any cost. Perhaps they would still have died then but at least they would have died together if they had to pass at all. But Kíli wasn’t there and this was the truth that killed him; his brother had died alone and frightened while the archer searched empty stone instead.  
  
Fíli had died and the last thing that Kíli had done was curse his sacrifice.  
  
Yet as he stared down at his brother, the dwarf found that he had no tears to weep for Fíli's life. There was no release in sorrow when the fault lay on his shoulders; there was no way to patch his heart from this.  
  
If Azog did not kill Kíli, his own shame would drown him and he had known that losing Fíli again would be more than he could take. The only thing left was vengeance now that his family had been shattered and the one bright star within the sea of loss that bound Kíli was the certainty that Kaminzabdûna did not need him anymore. For Bilbo was safe in Dale with Gandalf as the Vala had demanded and Dáin could lead his warriors against the few orcs that remained. Erebor’s future would no longer end in blood and fire but the once-king’s hopes were broken and all he saw was death before his eyes.  
  
For if he could not have his happy ending then he would have slaughter; Azog would pay the debt of blood that he owed Kíli now. So the dwarf let rage force back his shame and sorrow, letting out a scream of hatred as this red haze washed over him.  
  
The once-king sprinted up the tower stairs toward Azog, wings of fury lending speed to Kíli's feet. He leaped up the steps two at a time, the dwarf halfway up the tower before he met an enemy. But Kíli didn't even pause then, parrying the orc's blow, slicing him across the chest and then beheading his foe with one smooth strike before continuing his charge.  
  
This orc was only the first, Azog's creatures suddenly spilling from the stonework like the vermin that they were. But the next few orcs died as easily as their brother, the once-king's fury giving him a savagery that his usual style lacked. There was no mercy in Kíli's heart this day, no mercy for those who had stolen Fíli's future, and the once-king would die happy as long as Azog preceded him into the afterlife.  
  
And the dwarf was going to die here; they were all going to die in this cursed place. For when Kíli happened to look north, an army of orcs stretched toward the horizon as far as his eyes could see and he knew then what Azog's plan must be.  
  
The Defiler had been stalling for time, grinding down his foes so that they would have no strength left to fight when Bolg arrived. A simple plan but one that Kíli saw no way of stopping when Dáin could not hope to defeat the army that he saw. Erebor would be conquered; Dale would be conquered and with the city, Bilbo would be lost as well. In this one moment, the once-king saw the ruin of everything that he had tried so hard to protect, the future that was supposed to be worth his family's sacrifice.  
  
Bolg's arrival meant that Fíli had died for nothing and with this thought, Kíli threw himself back into the fight. If the dwarf was to kill Azog – and he still meant to shove his blade into the bastard's heart – then he must do it before the pale orc's second army reached Raven Hill.  
  
But then the once-king heard it, a cry that cut through his desperate fury and nearly stopped him in his tracks. Someone was calling his name; someone was calling his name as though they cared whether he was still breathing, and when he placed the voice, Kíli knew that he could not die just yet.  
  
“Tauriel!” the archer shouted back, his vengeance suddenly less important than getting the elfine out of here. Because even if killing Azog would be immensely satisfying, no amount of bloodshed could bring Fíli back to life and maybe the once-king did not need to lose everyone. Maybe with Tauriel's help Kíli could save his uncle, maybe they could still save Bilbo and salvage something from this tragedy.  
  
A slim hope given the size of Bolg's army, but without the fire of his hatred to sustain him, a slim hope was all he had.  
  
So Kíli ran forward, slicing through those orcs who tried to bar his way. Tauriel had stopped calling his name but the dwarf could hear the sounds of fighting down below him and there should be no one else on Raven Hill right now. Indeed, the first thing Kíli saw was the bright spark of the captain's hair, Tauriel's fiery mane shining through a crack in the stone. She was green and growing things where there was nothing but grey rock and ice around them and the once-king could not let that light go out.  
  
Yet the elfine was not alone within the tower and when Kíli moved nearer, his heart screamed in his throat. Because Tauriel was fighting Bolg and she was losing, her blows glancing off the monster's twisted armor as his hand closed upon her neck.  
  
The orc lifted her into the air as though she weighed nothing, the once-king sprinting toward them with a curse. He lost sight of the pair for a moment when another orc attacked him and by the time Kíli had dispatched this challenger, Tauriel was on the ground instead. She was lying on the snow, her face bruised and bloody, and when Bolg pulled the spiked mace off his back, the dwarf did not hesitate.  
  
Kíli took two steps and leaped into the air, sword raised to claim the monster's life. The once-king landed hard on Bolg's shoulders, the orc nearly falling beneath the sudden weight. But whatever advantage Kíli had gained through surprise was lost when his blade caught on Bolg's mace and failed to meet its target, the dwarf barely having time to curse his luck before he was flying through the air again.  
  
He landed hard upon the steps, hard enough that he could feel the impact through his armor and he nearly lost his grip upon his blade. But the once-king pushed himself back to his feet with a snarl, lunging forward to attack his foe again.  
  
Bolg parried this wild strike with ease, Kíli ducking under the orc's riposte to slice his blade across the monster's chest. However, the armor embedded in Bolg's flesh turned aside the dwarf's weapon just as it had deflected Tauriel's and before the once-king could recover, the orc's fist slammed into his face.  
  
Kíli reeled backward, his sword falling from numb fingers as Bolg held him down with one enormous hand. The dwarf didn't have the strength to fight off his enemy; his attempts to regain his footing leaving him flailing uselessly. He was bent nearly all the way to the stone, the position giving him a perfect view of Bolg's gruesome smile as the orc raised his spiked mace high.  
  
Yet the once-king could barely see his enemy through the stars that filled his vision, his head pounding so fiercely that he didn't think to wonder when his world went white again.  
  
  
 _But then Kíli blinks and Bolg is gone, the dwarf now sitting cross-legged on the stone. He is still on Raven Hill, at least he thinks so, but the ruins are silent and empty of all life. All life but the once-king and the dwarrow who stands before him, fires burning in the Great Maker's eyes.  
  
It is just Mahal this time, his Lady nowhere to be seen upon the hilltop, and while the archer has grown more used to these encounters, he does not understand why the Smith is smiling. For Kíli has betrayed the Valar; he has failed his kindred and his duty, and Mahal should be furious. But the Smith does not look angry, the Vala laying a hand on the once-king's shoulder and rumbling, “I am proud of you, my son. You have served our purpose well.”  
  
“What are you talking about? I have done **nothing**!” Kíli bites out, unable to accept his Maker's praise when such shame is in his heart. “My brother is dead, my uncle is likely dying, and I could not even save Tauriel. The only one I've managed to keep alive is Bilbo and I do not hold much hope for his survival now that Bolg's army has arrived.”  
  
“Blood pays for blood, young Kíli,” Mahal says, looking down at the dwarf with kindness where there should be scorn instead. “We said what we must to drive you onward, but even a Vala's tongue may lie. Indeed, your kin were always meant to die here; that was the price of Azsâlul'abad. For only blood could break the curse that Melkor laid upon the Lonely Mountain at the forging of this world. Only blood could free your people so that gold lust would destroy the hearts of Durin’s Folk no longer and their kings might rule in peace again.  
  
“Some fates must not be changed, no matter how you wish it. Some fates cannot be changed, no matter how you try. We could not let you save your brother, child, though our hearts bleed for your pain. Indeed, much of your ill luck was our doing and you may be proud that it took the Valar to turn your path aside. ”  
  
“Then why send me back?! Why send me back to fail my family?!”  
  
“For the hobbit,” the Smith tells Kíli, this single phrase halting any further accusations before they can pass the archer's lips. “When Bilbo died, your future vanished and we had to rip the weft of time itself to find that truth again. The hobbit is the fulcrum of the coming battle against Sauron, not for his bravery but for the souls that he must touch if the immortal evil is to fall. Yet the One Ring requires sacrifice to bind it to quiescence and while that price was meant to be yours, in the past that is no longer, Bilbo sold his life instead.”  
  
“I know; your Lady told me,” the once-king replies bitterly. “Bilbo loved me and he died for me and in so doing doomed us all. But loving Thorin has hardly saved him this time around.”  
  
“Of course not,” Mahal answers. “You saved him when you said goodbye. You loved Bilbo enough to free him when his heart turned toward another and you made that choice long before my lady asked. You let the hobbit go when you might have still bound your lives together and I promise you, he will survive this battle now. He will survive and Middle Earth will have the future that it was meant to see.”  
  
Although Kíli cannot doubt his Maker's words, he doesn't understand how his love or lack of it has somehow altered the course of history. Why would Bilbo die for him but not for Thorin when his hobbit had never even known how much the archer cared? But perhaps it is the smallest things that make the greatest difference when the Valar are shaping the future of their world. Perhaps love does not need to be requited in order to change everyone it touches and if his life will buy Bilbo's then Kíli cannot refuse the bargain now.  
  
Because he wants the hobbit to be happy more than he needs vengeance; Bilbo deserves to be happy this time around. Indeed, the dwarf has lived one life already and while it was not the future he would have chosen, he cannot demand another chance now that he knows the cost.  
  
There is peace in this decision, a peace that helps to ease the grief still screaming in his chest. For if his kin were always meant to die here then Kíli cannot claim the burden of that failure and he is just grateful for the promise that the future will be changed. He is grateful for every moment that he was given and if this is to be his ending, then he will face his death with courage instead of sniveling.  
  
Mahal must recognize the acceptance in the once-king’s eyes for the Smith does not ask him if is ready, he simply reaches out to clasp Kíli's shoulder one more time. “You were a good king, my son. You did your best for your people and the crown that fell upon your shoulders and you deserved to live a long and happy life. But the fates demanded blood and it is the line of Durin who must ever pay that price. Just know that you have earned your place in the halls of your fathers and you will find both love and laughter there.”  
  
Then the Vala snaps his fingers once and…_  
  
  
Kíli found himself back in the clutches of his enemy, the once-king opening his eyes just in time to see Bolg's spiked mace fall. The sharpened point of the weapon’s shaft pierced the dwarf’s chest where there was a gap in his armor, the shock of impalement driving the breath from Kíli's lungs.  
  
“No!” The once-king turned his head at the cry, his eyes meeting Tauriel’s anguished gaze. The elfine was staring at him as though it was her heart that had been skewered and Kíli was truly sorry for the pain his death would cause.  
  
While the dwarf still considered his life for Middle Earth the fairest bargain ever paid, he knew well the agony of outliving those you cared about and Tauriel deserved better than a fleeting star-crossed romance to hold back a sea of grief. She deserved someone who loved her more than duty or the ghosts of a forgotten lifetime and if the archer had known that this would be their ending, he would have tried harder to turn her heart aside.  
  
However, the once-king had not known and so he used the last of his strength to whisper, “Tauriel,” the word a farewell and apology in one. She had been a beautiful dream but now that dream was over and as darkness began to overtake the archer’s vision, he prayed that the elfine would find someone else to love.  
  
Because Kíli could hear the Halls of Mandos calling and he did not have the strength to resist them, not when Mahal had promised that his kin were waiting there. Fíli would be waiting and this time nothing would separate the once-king from the people that he loved. His brother, his uncle, and perhaps his hobbit, for only Kaminzabdûna knew the fate of her children and she had told him that love was stronger than any single lifetime's memory.  
  
 _Perhaps death can be its own beginning,_ and with this thought, the once-king closed his eyes.  
  
  
 _Finis_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you will probably be annoyed with me right now, but this story was always going to end like this. The beginning and the ending were the only things that never changed.
> 
> And to answer that question from a couple chapters ago: yes, you were right. I mean all my tags and the canon compliant one most of all.


End file.
